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The transfer window closing means one thing: freedom

Football's transfer market is eating Premier League fans alive. Make the most of this brief respite from the horror.

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All hail the mighty transfer market. What was once an occasionally diverting, largely mundane aspect of the world's most popular sport is now almost another entity in itself, a satellite grown so large that it's hard to tell, at times, whether it is orbiting the sport or the other way around.

That the wider phenomenon of the transfer market is an awful, horrible thing is, by this point, almost entirely beyond doubt. Look at the deadness in the eyes of Sky Sports News' reporters, standing gamely in an empty stadium, trying to find another arrangement of the words "Tiago," "Ilori," "Aston," and "Villa". Look at the way rumours insinuate themselves through the national press, winding from paper to paper to website to tweet, until it emerges that the speculation was simply the invention of a bored 15-year-old.

This isn't a problem with the window, as such. Though it's nonsense that the window remains open after the start of the season, there is at least some intuitive sense to the idea of having prescribed times in the year for the movement of footballers. But it's the effect of the whole thing on "normal" people: the weight of all the rumour and expectation, briefing and counter-briefing, Twitter meltdowns and Facebook header-changes, clickbait and phone-ins, fax machines and yellow ties. It is heavy. It is savage. It makes people do very peculiar things.

Like today, the day after the closure of the window, the day that the Arsenal Supporters Trust, in their infinite wisdom and majesty, demanded that the club carry out a formal inquiry into their lack of transfer dealings. As though Arsene Wenger had spent his summer manipulating Gunnersaurus into an illegal invasion of a Middle Eastern country, rather than simply making the decision that on balance, Francis Coquelin and Olivier Giroud might have decent seasons. An odd decision? Perhaps. A wrong decision? Maybe. But an inquiry? No. Even if it does sometimes take Giroud a lot longer than 45 minutes to do any damage.

The Arsenal Supporters Trust aren't entirely to blame, of course. They, like everybody else, are victims of the transfer market and the rumour mill, which over the lifetime of the Premier League has been built into something like a machine for the transformation of hope into misery.

Into the machine goes the hope: the poor fan's dreams of a better future for their team. Human beings are suckers for the dream of the greener grass, of the land of milk and honey, of the marquee signing plus the utility midfielder plus the centrehalf. Look, it says so in the papers! Look, he's saying so on the television! And the machine spews out nothing but pain: the psychic toll of being told, twice a year, that the grass will be staying brown, that there's only skim left and that Karim Benzema is quite happy in Madrid, thank you very much. Even those fans whose teams manage to have a good window know, deep down, that this is merely pain deferred, frustration postponed. Sure, Kevin du Bruyne came. But Sergio Aguero will be leaving soon.

Fans have their own optimism and their own emotional investment turned against them. And, by the by, they are finding that the sense of entitlement that Premier League clubs like to engender in their fan bases is a hollow thing designed to do nothing more than milk money gently from their wallets; that when it comes down to it, their club is — with a few honorable exceptions — the exclusive property of a few idiosyncratic rich men in suits. And if there's one lesson the world has to teach us, it's that idiosyncratic rich men in suits will do as they damn well please, and they do not care what you think. You're demanding an inquiry? That's cute.

Is there a solution to this toxic cocktail of festering entitlement and curdled hope? Probably not imminently. It would take the simultaneous collapse of a couple of broadcasting giants, the strict imposition of harsh spending limits, and a sudden and unexpected fit of maturity from the entire media landscape. Or, to put it another way, utopia! But even if it's inescapable in the immediate term, then there are lulls. One lull. Now. September. Maybe some of October, too.

It is imperative that we all savour the next couple of months of the Premier League as much as we possibly can, because it's essentially the most relaxed that the whole pantomime ever gets. The waves of transfer drivel have subsided for the moment, girding their strength for a fresh assault in the winter. Nobody's about to win or lose anything, and the sack race isn't quite up and running yet. Maybe a couple of the bigger teams will sabotage their own title bids, but we won't know for sure.

In a funny kind of way, this is the time off. This is when football is free of the noisy business, not yet tired and exhausted by the winter of more noisy business and managerial bloodshed, and not yet consumed by the spring of silverware, sadness and imminent shopping. This is when it can just be itself. Some games happen. They will be good, or bad. The results will be wins, or draws or losses. Maybe they will be important in the long run; maybe they won't. They will be enjoyable or irritating or miserable on their own terms. They will just be. For a month, maybe a little longer, the other stuff is round on the dark side, out of sight, occluded from view by the football.

Unless, of course, Arsenal manage to make a mess of the Champions League group stage. Then we're doomed.