What Really Happens to Jim White at the End of Transfer Deadline Day?

This article originally appeared on VICE Sports UK.

Once upon a time, in that terrible decade we now call the eighties, Jim White had never heard of a 'Transfer Deadline Day'. He was a young man with hopes, dreams and a fantastic mullet, and he was happy as a presenter on Scotland Today. The idea of a transfer window would not be seriously considered until the early nineties, and was not introduced in the Premier League until the 2002/03 season. Meanwhile, White was busy reporting on Scottish wedding fairs, and coming out with innuendos so atrocious that watching them back makes us howl, and howl, and howl.

Now, of course, Jim White and Transfer Deadline Day go hand in hand. Gone is the lustrous mullet, gone is the wispy moustache, and in their place stand the ageless features of the transfer window's most recognisable man. Rather than looking like David Bowie in a mundane Glaswegian version of Labyrinth, White is now characterised by his perfect tan, sharp suits and bright yellow ties. He is the king of transfers, handing down proclamations of last-minute transfer business. He is a football fan's puppet master, making each of us dance on his strings. He is the holy messenger of panic buys and surprise signings, bringing us news from Stamford Bridge, The Hawthorns, Huish Park and beyond. Jim White is Transfer Deadline Day, and there can be no Transfer Deadline Day without Jim White.

That begs the question, though: can there be a Jim White without Transfer Deadline Day?

Despite our semi-exhaustive research, we can't give a definitive answer to that question. When we really think about it, have any of us seen Jim White at any other time of the year? We might think we've spotted him, presenting some other bit of Sky Sports' programming. But did we really see him? Can any of us claim was he definitely, actually there?

None of us, none of us truly know what Jim White gets up to when it's not Transfer Deadline Day. What does he do the other 363 days of the year? It is one of life's great mysteries, one of the most enigmatic questions of our age. There are no 'right' answers. Nothing is certain, when it comes to Jim White.

The clock ticks down on Transfer Deadline Day. The final deals are done, the last of the paperwork is exchanged, and the lights go off in Sky studio 103. Two workmen arrive and weld the doors shut, before bolting them with a heavy steel bar. Jim White is still sitting at his desk, occasionally adjusting his bright yellow tie, humming contentedly to himself while thinking about Stoke's excellent defensive acquisitions and occasionally whispering "Shockaroonie" under his breath.

Outside, the days fly by. The nights grow short, the seasons change. Relationships begin, relationships end, babies are born and old men breathe their last. Winter has come, it is bitterly cold, and Jim White is still humming happily away.

Flash! The lights come on. It is the end of the January transfer window, and Transfer Deadline Day calls to Jim White once more. It is the year 2068, and the same process is ongoing. Outside, the ashes of nuclear winter fall on a dead earth, as Jim White does his tie up and says, with rich enthusiasm: "News just in from Ewood Park!"

But there is no-one there.

The clock ticks down on Transfer Deadline Day, and Jim White starts to feel nervous. Beads of sweat start to form on his brow and trickle down his face as he announces the latest news from Bramall Lane. He looks to the production team; they are smiling now, smiling menacingly. Suddenly, the last 'done deal' is disclosed, the cameras flick off and the broadcast ends.

Jim White is hoisted on the shoulders of his colleagues, and he is screaming. In a low, monotonous tone, they are chanting his name. Some of them have donned black hoods and dark robes, and are swinging metal censers full of incense. They are taking him down into the tunnel, the dark and gloomy tunnel that attaches the Sky studios to the monstrous storage chamber under the earth.

He struggles to break free from their grip, but they hold him with inhuman strength. Down in the chamber, he sees the thing he most dreads. There, on a golden altar, is Jim White's glass sarcophagus. He is loaded into its translucent depths, kicking and shouting all the while. He looks up, and sees his production manager at the head of the cultish gathering. "Until January, Jim" he says, before slamming the lid shut.

The clock ticks down of Transfer Deadline Day, and Jim White reels off his closing lines. The signal for the end of filming is given, and the control room breaks out in spontaneous applause. Jim White raises his hand in acknowledgement, before a serene expression comes over his face. Everyone in the room knows what is coming. Gradually, a change comes over him.

With the applause thundering under the ceiling, Jim White starts to shimmer. His form becomes vague and indistinct, and he starts to dissipate like dust on the wind. Before long, he is nothing but a golden cloud, a glinting mass of particles being blown to and fro by the light breeze of the air conditioning. He gains an impossible lightness and, just like that, begins to float upwards towards the studio's open skylight, and towards the opalescent heavens above.

His colleagues are crying now, crying hot tears at the indescribable beauty of it. On a distant piano, someone is playing Celine Dion's "My Heart Will Go On". There are runners embracing, sound engineers weeping, and assistant producers looking up with wide eyes and ingenuous smiles. "Goodbye, Jim!" cry the assembled throng, safe in the knowledge that he will be back come January. "This just in…" whispers his disembodied voice, as he dissolves into the ether and lights up the night sky.

The clock ticks down on Transfer Deadline Day, and Jim White declares the window closed. The cameramen are packing up their equipment now, and he's exchanging a few cordial goodbyes on his way out of the building. He trundles home on a single-decker bus, watching as the rain drums against the window. The sky is overcast, the world is grey. Transfer Deadline Day is over, and the monotony of life has resumed in earnest.

It is December, and Jim White is sitting by the window. He looks, glassy eyed, at the barren cityscape before him, pondering the essential meaninglessness of it all. He reaches for the television remote, but his hand falls listlessly onto the armrest. Without Transfer Deadline Day, there is no point to existence, and not even a fleeting moment of joy.

It is early January now, and Jim White is at his lowest. Transfer Deadline Day still feels aeons away. His hair is long and bedraggled, and he has grown a huge, matted beard. He has spent two weeks painting a portrait of Natalie Sawyer, but when he adds the final stroke he realises the canvas is nothing but a mad flurry of black brushstrokes.

He is a broken man, an arid husk, an empty vessel. He is lost without his one true calling. He is lost without Transfer Deadline Day. Then, suddenly, January 31st arrives. "The clock is ticking!" he cries, back in the studio, perfectly groomed and wearing his yellow tie once more.

The clock ticks down on Transfer Deadline Day, and the last few transfers are being finalised. With a last bit of breaking news from Goodison, the window slams emphatically shut. The television crew go to applaud Jim White, but see only an empty chair before them. They are left to contend with their own perceptions of Jim White, their own abstract notions on what exactly Jim White signifies.

In the end, they are left with the realisation that Jim White is not so much a man as he is a concept. He is not so much a corporeal being, as he is a projection of our whims and desires. Jim White is the human condition, the comforting inner monologue which makes existence bearable.

When we want our club to sign a defensive midfielder, we look to Jim White to declare the deal done. Ultimately, though, a defensive midfielder is a substitute for personal fulfilment. 'Jim White' tells us we've found what we're looking for, and we almost allow ourselves to believe he is right.