What’s that in the sky? Is it a beam of light projecting a half-eaten pie onto the underside of those ominous clouds?
It is, you know.
It’s the Sam Signal, beamed from the roof of the Main Stand stairwell.
Farhad Moshiri, the tails of his cashmere overcoat whipping in the wind, the icy rain beading on his glasses, grips the Klieg light and stares to the heavens.
‘Do you think he’ll come?’ whispers Steve Walsh, huddled from the elements in his [Poor language removed] Leicester Kenny coat.
‘He’ll come,’ says Moshiri, jaw set sternly. ‘He always comes.’
And indeed, Sam Allardyce, the corpulent carpet-bagger, has made himself a very wealthy man by cultivating his image as the only game in town for struggling Premier League teams.
Everton are certainly one of those, and if the latest reports are to be believed, of all the avaricious opportunists putting themselves in the frame for one of the biggest jobs in Britain, and probably one of the best-paid in world football, Allardyce is set to be the one who comes up holding the Goodison golden ticket.
What an absolute embarrassment that is.
He wasn’t suitable the other week, but on the strength of a couple of performances – admittedly horrific ones – a ‘relegation specialist’ is the only answer to our predicament.
For [Poor language removed]’s sake. What a crushing lack of imagination and vision that shows.
Even worse than giving Allardyce the job full time is giving him, or indeed anyone, a contract until the end of the season. That just creates more uncertainty and more turmoil, and almost certainly a load of short-sighted signings in January that may be enough to earn the manager a massive ‘survival bonus’ but will leave even more [Poor language removed] for the summer’s full-time appointment – presumably some louche foreign sort – to try and deal with.
‘But he’s trying to get us to play football on the deck – these players weren’t used to that after playing under Sam’.
You know the script. It’s played out plenty of times.
So anyway, Everton, the School of Science, are reduced to begging for the services of a disgraced England manager who did well with that hateful Bolton Wanderers and, most importantly, ‘has never been relegated.’
What a claim to [Poor language removed] fame.
Like being proud that you’ve never bummed dogs. Okay, that’s arguably worse, but having never been relegated it’s quite hard to compare.
Seriously, how can giving millions of pounds to that [Poor language removed]-shirted, narcissistic, bully-beef gobshite be the only option?
Absolutely ridiculous.
Every mention of the tit makes Sean Dyche, the manager off the fish counter, seem more like Marcelo Lippi.
Absoluetly spot on.
