Give Me The Head of Kenny Dalglish On A Plate.

After yet another weekend having found myself trawling through my social media timelines, looking for just a chink in the otherwise vitriolic criticism aimed at clubs, supporters and certain football managers, an all too familiar tune being played in the background; Sky Sports News “Andre Villas-Boas Sacked by Chelsea” Sky having unwittingly become the orchestra to the Sack Bands leading conductor Roman Abramovich, like a record gone wrong, with the gramophone needle stuck, jumping and repeating, giving every grime house rapper the opportunity to very soon use such a magnificent sound in a re-mix, which no doubt will top the Hit-Parade.

The Footballing Grim Reaper

We have Arsenal supporters asking for the football Manager Grim Reaper to visit The Emirates on such an irregularity that poor Mister Reaper does not know whether he is coming or going, one week sharpening his scythe, only for the Hit to be withdrawn moments later, when a masked Wenger strides in to Merseyside with his band of highwaymen led by the masked Robin Van Turpin demanding three points or your life!!  Liverpool holding their hands above their shaking heads as their pockets are picked and relieved of any points they may have momentarily held. If only they had stoked up Black Bess whilst riding on a similar heist in Milan.

Which leads us nicely on to the faithless, fickle, frivolous fans from Liverpool, with memories shorter than a walk up Wembley Way? Oh what a difference a week clearly makes, when you throw into the mix two goalposts, a Gordon Banks like display, finishing that even Ronny Rosenthal would have shaken his head at, and limit defensive concentration levels to 85 minutes rather than the required 98, and of course spot kicks from the Roberto Baggio school of penalty taking.

With shouts of The King is dead, Champions League qualification buried along-side King Kenny and his fallen crown which had fitted so well only 7 days earlier as The King paraded his ill-gotten gains around his palace and his adoring subjects, uninterested in The Kings very own version of “Gentlemen of The Road” tactics toward a beleaguered band of Welsh warriors in Cardiff City.

Wolves Chased Away The Pack Leader McCarthy

Packs of Wolves howling day and night, with no let up as they aim to remove the weakest from the fold, hunting him high and low, growling from the stands, howling from boardroom, somehow even managing to come in from the wilderness and occupy the changing facilities, until its sworn enemy the domestic dog Mick McCarthy is driven out to the hills, to be replaced by stronger, faster and more experienced pedigree!!

Elsewhere Rover is beginning to settle in with his new owner, his bark for the moment not quite as fierce as its bite, if only Steve Kean had known that a few long walks around The Ewood Park were all that were required to repel the jaw snapping, tail wagging beast, and of course consistency of, a victory, a defeat, and a draw giving a dying dog another opportunity to have its day.

Football supporters pay their money and so believe they in some way have a say in who is in charge, and are more adequately positioned, even if their own C.V. lacks experience than said manager when deciding that five strikers are far superior to three defensive midfielders, fantasy football managers all. This is not World Football Challenge on Sega Mega-drive or whatever the modern-day version is called? (Other games are available!!)

ScrewBalls All Around Please Mr Whippy!!!

Where defeat is like the harmonies from an Ice Cream Van, pied piping the fickle souls from their homes 99s and screwballs, replaced with unhappy fans and errrm……Screwballs. The modern fan has become too accustomed to seeing heroes move on at the waving of currency, just above their badge kissing lips and under their noses, quite happy to lord it over managerless rivals, whilst momentarily taking a well-earned break from a verse of “You don’t know what you are doing” toward their very own once worshipped leader.

Unfortunately there is a new sort of fan in town standing on the winning line, all set to judge the next competitor prepared to participate in the sack race. Lacking the patience but more virile than his previous incumbent, so much more intelligent, thought-provoking if callous in its approach, a questionable ideology toward loyalty and its knowledge stretching as far back as its previous viewing of Match Of The Day, this new breed the super fan.

If only life itself were so simple, a poor days work , an underperforming morning at the office after the previous evenings  antic at the local strip club, unable to get the stapler to staple, meeting every phone call with a poorly timed “Hello” every click of the mouse resulting in a wayward cursor, howls of derision and boos from those colleagues that once were so-called friends, who once told you how great you were, your phenomenal work rate making you the first name on the list for all projects, all the former support now replaced with “Sack in the morning, you’ll get the sack in the morning, sack in the mornnnnning”.

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1 Comment

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One response to “Give Me The Head of Kenny Dalglish On A Plate.

  1. Excellent once more Chris.. I’v had a shit load of sack KD tweets this week. Had to rub my eyes with disbelief soap.. You can buy disbelief soap in any decent club store.

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