Liverpool shot themselves in the balls so Arne Slot must pay; it’s how football works
Before we get going, I just would like to mourn the sad passing of Billy Bonds. A barrelling force of nature, he embodied 70s football for me; he was whole-hearted and unafraid of the muck and nettles that was typical of that era.
He should have been at the heart of England’s defence. At times long-haired and bearded, he was a real unit, not to be messed with. He didn’t miss many games, played 799 times for West Ham, won two cups, epitomised everything great about 70s and 80s West Ham and always played with a level of commitment and physicality. That vibrant energy will live on in the hearts of all who saw him play. A legend in the truest sense. Cheers Billy.
It’s that time of year when the chairmen and chairwomen get twitchy and start to think someone who isn’t the current manager could do a better job than the one they’ve got, even if, more usually, it’s the players’ fault for the terrible results. But you can’t fire all of them, so they open the top-floor window of the Premier League’s gaudy, gold skyscraper of excess and defenestrate the current manager instead. It will look like you’re doing something and aren’t just sitting watching the club go down the toilet like the hapless bozo you know you are. Perhaps fans will forget this is really all your fault.
Will it do any good? Stats suggest a long-term return to the mean is more usual. So, no, not usually. But that’s not the point. It might. And that hope is what is needed as you plummet towards relegation or humiliation.
Of course, this is likely total delusion because the same clown that employed the current useless bag of flesh and bones will choose the next one, using money most likely provided by vicious capitalists and murderous autocracies. But we pretend it’s not. So that’s alright, then. Similarly the threat of relegation out of the Premier League must be resisted, even though most agree being in the Championship is more fun. Don’t mention that, whatever you do. Keep pretending this nadir is really a pinnacle. Lying is just an alternative truth.
But football exists on the back of hope. When fans lose hope, it’s notoriously bad for business. Owners can’t allow the light of day to fall on their culture of greed and cruelty, so something must be done and sacking the manager is easy and won’t cost as much as carpet-bombing a neighbouring country.
And at the moment nearly half the league’s managers are dangling out the Premier League tower block of despair window, feet held by the owners, soon to be let go.
Daniel Farke is the favourite to hit the pavement with a splat, despite last season’s success, despite the quality of the squad or anything else. Someone has to finish in the bottom three and despite the fact that playing in the Championship is far more entertaining, Daniel has to be sacrificed to assuage the self-regarding false god of the Premier League. He’s only won nine of 60 Premier League games, which is probably as good as you or I could do. Nothing personal Danny. There’s bound to be a vacancy at Sheffield Wednesday soon.
Thomas Frank is next haircut in the barber’s chair. He’s proven unable to overcome the comedy nature of Spurs – nobody can – and despite him being very amiable and having big ears, the Premier League deity wants blood. See ya Tom, time to taste the sidewalk.
Arne Slot will not be far behind. That head will be very aerodynamic, plummeting through the air to the ground. Last year counts for nothing, last year is so last year. The club shot themselves in the balls with a ridiculous transfer window and you must pay for that, Arne. Not us. We have no choice. Turns out you’re rubbish, really, as we all secretly knew.
Scott Parker always resembled Biggles (ask yer grandad) so should enjoy his trip. Believe it or not Burnley are not plucky underdogs but actually one of the richest clubs in world football, though you’d never know it. Any number of overly tight jackets, jumpers and clothing more generally will not break your fall, Scotty. If it looks like you can’t deliver 17th you’re dead to us.And it doesn’t.
Ruben Amorim might be hanging on to the window of defenestration by his fingertips but it can’t be long before the ridiculous idiots that run Manchester United like a back-street chip shop emerge from breathing their own flatulence and realise they’ve made an almighty bollocks of everything. Again. It doesn’t matter how many wins you get, one more game like the loss to Everton and the fall from the top floor of the managerial skyscraper awaits, probably much to Ruben’s relief.
David Moyes’ Everton beating Manchester United is like robbing a blind child these days; losing 4-1 at home to Newcastle better indicates where you’re at. Moyes, though two years younger than even me, looks like an ancient hobbit and wears an expression like he’s peering into the bowels of Hades. When your best ideas involve deploying James Tarkowski’s impression of a meat locker, what’s the point? People have long wondered that about the club itself. The answer to this existential crisis is not David Moyes. Get out the window, son.
The only thing to comfort these men is that if sacked, they’ll get all their contract money but won’t have to work for it (unlike almost every job) and all their current and many failures will be forgotten soon enough and some new bozo will hire them, despite plenty of evidence of their inadequacy, because no matter how cataclysmically bad you’ve been, it’s rarely bad enough, as Russell Martin might admit.
And it will start all over again. Meet the new boss, same as someone else’s old boss.
