Entente cordiale and all that...

Wouldn't it be nice if one of our many unprenounceable European / French transfer targets actually hopped on a plane and sat down at the Molineux table for a chat, before their agents start reaching for their moneybags and Motorolas.

They might actually take a step inside our Golden Palace for a bowl of frog's legs with Big Mick and Uncle Jez.
They could have a look around our famous museum, which dazzles in floodlit 50s fame (not to mention an 09 era). They could have a glance at Sir Billy, whose warm and wonderful presence endears.
Heck, they could even take a peek at our very own revolutionary Stan, who towers under the North Bank roof.
Then they would turn to our Yorkshire yoda, and say: "Ohh hee horr ee horr, zis is ze good place to play ze Beautiful Game non? Give me ze piss of papeur to sign."

And just when this dream starts to excite, it quickly turns into a nightmare, as the players' agents leg it down the Molineux corridoors in garish white trainers (complete with white socks), punching holes in the walls as they scream blue murder at their once awestruck client.

"Bent Harry has been on the phone. We'll beat the M25 traffic if you hurry up."