I was right and wrong in equal measure. They were sitting in the dark plotting a PR coup that would see a lickspittle fake a phone call and proclaim that they had turned down a £9m bid, from an unknown agent, representing an unknown club, for their injury prone, prolific striker whose features could only belong to a Eastern European War Crimes Suspect.
I mocked. Openly wept salty tears.
Unsure if our CEO should be acting like a fan when he puts his lovingly framed balance sheet up on his Inglenook oak fireplace while our neighbours wipe their bottoms with it, laugh heartly and celebrate winning leagues.