Those of us who don't have it, want it. Those of us who have it... well, I wouldn't really know how to finish that sentence, but suffice it to say there aren't many of us who, hand on heart, don't desire its presence. I am talking of course about money. Bunce. Greenbacks. Doubloons. Whatever ludicrous moniker you care to employ, it still makes the world go round and, despite the Con-Dem's best efforts, it ain't going anywhere fast. As a man of relatively simple means, raised to appreciate the value of things, I'd like to believe that I understand both the necessity of its existence and the respect it should be shown. Having said all that, if my numbers were to come up tomorrow I'm fairly sure I'd consider buying a yacht.
When we embark on our daily thumb through the back pages and catch sight of the next in the never-ending line of obscenely large pay-packets dished out to our favourite Premier League bladder-hoofers, we inevitably feel something begin to boil up in the grimy pits of our stomachs. You'd think it might be that three day-old pan au chocolat we found at the back of the cupboard before we dashed off for the tube. But you'd be wrong. It's something altogether more acrid and unifying. It's rage – simple, dumb, gurgling rage.
Why do we inevitably encounter this reaction? Do we feel that these individuals haven't worked for their keep, that turning up to training four times a week and performing tricks in front of an adoring, slavering public isn't really work? Maybe it isn't. It's genuinely tough to describe as 'work' something which we, to a woman or man, would give a limb to spend our lives doing (although this would admittedly hinder our chances of success). But then in so many walks of life, glory and greed seem to invariably go hand-in-hand, and as much as we idolise their on-field triumphs, we still pull faces of horror when a man of fame and fortune looks to make the most of his boodle, be it via tax avoiding wage-spreading or through sheer material gluttony. Considering we have never been (and almost certainly never will be) in possession of even a fraction of such riches, jealousy seems like a decent conclusion to reach. But this isn't quite satisfying enough. It comes down to something more intrinsic: the idea of the value of money itself. But value can mean different things to different people. Just look at Aston Villa.
The biggest gust to billow the curtains of the transfer window thus far has been Randy Lerner’s bankrolling of the midlanders' shock purchase of Darren Bent from
Sunderland (for £18m, rising, potentially, to £24m). For a club which lost the services of Martin O'Neill thanks to disagreements over a lack of investment capital, it speaks volumes about the fluid and fluctuating nature of monetary value. Staring a relegation dog-fight squarely in the eye, Villa have clearly decided that good value, at this moment in time, is whatever it costs to stay in the Premier League. With a man boasting a top-flight goalscoring record like Bent's safely on board, the investment could prove to be rather sound.
Of course the days of being shocked by the enormity of transfer fees are long gone, but even so, the prevailing reaction to Bent's move was, to say the least, one of mid-range surprise. Yet while folk may raise their eyebrows skyward when mentioning the perceived absurdity of the fee in these (cliché alert) tough economic times, there is another financial hot potato that has once again caused verbal rumblings of late. This past Monday the PFA's Gordon Taylor was
moved to defend footballers who seek to minimise their, shall we say, 'tax-themed outgoings' by diverting wages to their own independent image rights companies. Such a practice can result in the skilful, yet entirely legal, avoidance of the current 50% tax on annual earnings of £150,000 or above. Brace yourself, here comes that boiling sensation again.
The point regularly subject to 4am kebab-and-nightcap debate across the land is that footballers have short careers compared to those of the average man on the street, and they should therefore feel free to manage their money however they see fit. Let's try to suppress that rage for a moment and suppose that a highly talented, international quality player receives (at least) a five figure weekly income for the period between their first and last professional contracts – say from the age of 20 to the age of 35. That's fifteen years of highest level earning in today's footballing economy. According to
a 2009 study by The Office for National Statistics' Annual Survey of Hours and Earnings (ASHE), the average annual income for a full-time employee in
Britain was a smidgen over £31,000, a figure that would, based on forty-five years of gruelling, uninterrupted employment, result in a lifetime's gross earnings of roughly £1.3m. Or to put it another way, what Emmanuel Adebayor earns between Halloween and Hootenanny.
There are two fairly distinct ways of looking at this. Both hint at an ethical standpoint, but really can be stripped down to a clash of detached world-views and individual ideals; a question of blunt economics versus feverishly personal politics. On one bejewelled hand, a man (or any commodity, for that matter) is worth roughly somewhere between what a buyer is willing to pay and what a seller is willing to accept. The sticker price is quite simply a statement of value based on output potential and perhaps a little sell-on capacity. If a club wishes to dish out big bucks for a transaction and provide sizable fiscal reimbursement for the subsequent service provided, they are quite entitled to, and the commodity in question (the player) has every right to accept the riches thrust his way. “But I'd happily live on one hundred quid a week and the love of a good woman” we bawl into our cider, but how many of us would honestly stare a mammoth pay cheque for doing something we live and breathe in the face and turn it away with nothing more than a knowing grin and a nonchalant adjustment of our Guevara beret?
In short, what we're looking at is the emotional response of the common man versus the plain face of the market. But then that's us. We're human beings with skin, bones, worries and appetites – and still we have the legal right to earn however much we can based on our worth to someone, or something, else. Unfortunately, whatever your reaction, the continued increase in wages, if not fees, leaves us with a footballing future based on massive numbers and small, shoddily-woven safety nets. Some suggest that a wage cap is the way toward financial competence within the game, but to my mind this treats the symptom of unsustainable spending rather than the cause. Our ire is directed at the players because they, like us, have breathing, punchable faces towards which we can aim delight and scorn in equal measure. But their duty to shoulder football's monetary situation only goes so far.
When it comes to the issue of obligation, it's the clubs which need to suit up. The forthcoming introduction of
UEFA’s new financial fair play rules is certainly a strong and welcome move but ultimately the buck, if you excuse the pun, stops with the clubs. Now I'm no economist (that much should be fairly obvious by now) but just as a business can stretch the parameters governing its actions to breaking point without doing anything legally wrong, so too a footballing institution can quite legitimately toss money, however desperately, at players and opponents to further their own ends. But with great power comes great responsibility. Any larger questions of moral etiquette or long-termism can surely not be effectively governed by a higher authority and must rest with those making the decisions at boardroom level. The moral compass must be set not by the gods of the sea, but by those steering the ship.
~ Matt
