That nursery rhyme was all about struggling and getting by in life to little purpose. When that was written to ‘pop’ was to pawn, ‘weasel and stoat’ referred to a coat. The sentiment seems all too apt this morning.
So now we supporters enter into a period of relative awfulness as the transfer window rattles and creaks as the knackered putty of threat and rumour falls out all over the shop.
We pawned any tangible achievement this season for the vanity and reptilian ambition of our manager. And that’s not up for debate.
The laughable ‘argument’ from this clown’s apologists isn’t an argument. It’s the just the utterly desperate clucking those seeking to make themselves look more considered than the angry mob.
‘But look at his record before all this England business!’ will come the cry. Well I agree. It was all rather jolly up until then.
But how do you want it? This is like saying that your son or daughter was operated on by the world’s greatest surgeon. He saved their life with a heart transplant. Then he carried out the most incomprehensibly difficult neurosurgery. The man had given hope and a future to that thing most precious.
But then one afternoon he accidentally amputated your child’s head because he was trying to get a high score playing Angry Birds.
Let me be clear. I would have fired Arry even if Bayern had won. Ideally I would have had Danny Baker do it in a Daz doorstep challenge style live on TV. It is not remotely rational to argue that Fabio getting the bullet and Arry flushing a 10 or was it in fact a 12 point lead was somehow, merely coincidental. It’s like suggesting the FA were to blame. In fact, it’s wishing. That’s what all that is. Wishing.
He spent the entire period honeymooning like it was a done deal. No other manager, no other pundit or journalist even devoted as much of their time to the England situation as Arry. The oaf was convinced he’d got it. Virtually every day he was on the phone to talkSPORT or waxing lyrical to some other poor bar stewards of the press.
And while the cat was away the mice did play.
The indulgence of Bale’s vision to become the Welsh Ronaldo cost us plenty also. No manager worth their salt would put up with something that so unrelentingly doesn’t work.
The responsibility for this fiasco lies squarely on the shoulders of Henry James Redschnapps. But Levy & Co. aren’t as daft as this cockney shyster would perhaps like to think and his inability to stay even vaguely on message will have been noted.
Who would I bring in? Difficult to see Ian Dowie making as bigger fist of it if I’m honest. It needs to be someone with a CV. Martinez doesn’t have a CV. He’s a favourite colour. This week’s must have handbag. Brendan Rodgers I respected, but him turning down even the ‘opportunity’ to talk to Liverpool upgraded him from respect to admiration.
Leaving aside the Lollypop Land suggestions of managers that would require budgets we do not have and Champions League credentials that we do not have, the obvious choice is Capello. His big faults allegedly were that he didn’t have a rapport with the press and that his English was poor. His CV says that he speaks football fluently and if we could hire someone that didn’t turn into a tame monkey every time someone pointed a microphone at him, I’d be delighted.