Boy this week has dragged on – like of those interminable B movies, one of those westerns that still occasionally turn up in the schedules starring nobody you’ve ever heard of bar Ronald Reagan when he was fourteen.
Lots of dialogue gets exchanged. Lots. The plot line is pretty straightforward. Everything starts of calmly. Then there’s an incident. This is triggers a shake up and the cast harrumph backwards and forwards, mostly on horse back (this is usually accompanied by very urgent music) until they confront evil and vanquish it a bit.
I think I’ve actually reached a state of transcendental inertia. I’m not even harrumphed out. There’s been nothing to insanely purse in days. Barring something seismic occurring the world and his wife are now saying that Villas Boas is a done deal, Sigurdsson not far behind him and Vertonghen plugging away in third place.
However, seismic may just be the word.
Maybe it’s just been a sinister ITK time killing device but the talk of the club being sold has resurfaced with gusto. Perhaps all my ranting and raving about how much money failing to reach the Champions League was accurate after all.
Those whining on and on about patience last season don’t live in the real world. Time isn’t your friend in a results driven business and it would make perfect sense for the owners to take matters into their own hands and do something dramatic.