Life ‘down the Lane’ is never dull. The football is; that’s fucking dire. But life is sparkling. The kebab shops have never had it so good. As yet one more manager bites the dust. 8 months; plenty of time to turn round the fortunes of any football club. Didn’t do it; he’s gone; and the next one, step this way, please…

Into the eternally rotating turn-style leading in, and out, of the management suite at the Lane. I suppose it could be worse. We could be Nottingham Forest. Who today sacked their manager for repeatedly and blatantly failing to turn Forest into Manchester City. Even into Chelsea would have been acceptable, but no, they’re still Nottingham Forest, so he has to go. After about 3 months. So that Forest can get their fourth manager this season. But where do you go, to try and avoid relegation, if you sack Sean Dyche, the man you turn to to avoid relegation? Time to call Sam Allardyce.

Though in my heart of hearts, I sincerely hope that Forest go down. Or, even more preferable, West Ham. Because if both those teams manage to avoid joining the almost inevitable Wolves and Burnley in their relegation, then Spurs will possibly be the one to make up the numbers. And nobody wants that. Ok, I don’t want that. Lots of people probably do want that, but not people I could ever love.

So where do Spurs go? Who do we want as our new manager? More importantly, what manager in his right fucking mind would ever want to manage Spurs? Who prove to be ‘manager-proof’ in their consistency of uselessness. And of injuriness. Five managers in five years have all come, with the inevitable ‘false dawns’ which new management always produce, and then fail miserably. To either produce a consistency of form or, more importantly, to keep the players fit.

We currently have about 12 of our superstars in various stages of horribly prolonged and protracted recuperation. The training ground resembles a care home as half of our 200-grand-a-week stars hobble round on crutches, walking frames and wheelchairs. But this shouldn’t happen. Football clubs invest millions and millions every year on the finest medical advice from orthopaedic dudes, musculoskeletal experts, physical therapists, training gurus and a whole bunch of other seemingly worthless blood-suckers who seem collectively unable to keep a 24 year old in peak physical fitness from pulling muscles, straining ligaments or ripping hamstrings. Something’s gone wrong.

And we had a new manager. With a ‘proven record’ (he brought Brentford up from leagues beneath and, more difficultly, kept them in the top flight for 4 years, all with some degree of style). We even replaced our club chairman, in case that was the issue. Yet the malaise didn’t just continue but in fact deepened. They changed the cleaners at the stadium. Got some new chefs, even the old car-washer was sent back to the refugee centre and replaced with… someone else.

It must be the fans’ fault. So we’re all sacked. Season tickets will no longer work, refunds to be applied for. We’re getting some new fans in. Proper ones. From Arsenal. Chelsea. Millwall. Halifax. See if that makes any difference. As we plunge managerless towards the Arsenal fixture in 10 days time.

God help us. Someone should.

Happy, moany Thursday

A xxxx