People were very critical of Chelsea’s owners and look how they are getting on.
It’s easy slag everyone off.
Ugarte and signing two centre backs might have meant they were looking at somebody to play 3-4-3. Ten hag wanted to keep mctominay and bring back Amrabat.
Sounds like this chap is turning down the job
The Whatsapp for the Tipperary Branch of the MUFC Supporters Club had totally bought in to this fella this evening so we may need to do a full 180 on things in true TFK style.
Goodbye Coach Amorim, hello Coach Interim.
The question now is whether it will be a straight up interim coach, or an interim coach to the interim coach, as Coach Carrick was for Coach Rangnick last time the job came up.
Marco silva
Knows the league.
But does he know the club?
Kieran McKenna knows the club. Michael Carrick knows the club. Ruud KNOWS the club.
If he’s turning it down, he must be tapped up as Pep’s replacement.
As a Footix and Sky subscribeer, I’m watching Sky Sports 1 Ruud PL Legends. Some observations:
-Silvestre was a savage
Beckham would be a right back now, like a clunkier Trent
Sadly we’re coming to the end of the golden age of the Premier League manager and entering the era of the faceless drone.
The golden age of the Premier League manager encompasses the entirety of the existence of the Premier League up to now.
It started off with Dalglish and Clough and Ferguson and Keegan and Big Ron and Jim Smith and cheer up Peter Reid.
At the top level you had the arrival of Wenger to form a big two with Ferguson and then ENTER Mourinho to make it a big three and Rafa to make it a big four.
Then Ferguson departed and Klopp and Guardiola came along, along with a supporting cast of headbangers like Conte, Pochettino and, em, Mourinho again.
But it was at the lower levels that richness of the managerial merry go round and its narrative was at its best. The characters, oh the characters. Tony Pulis and his love of history. Christian Gross and his underground ticket. Neil Warnock and his love for enjoying it by being fuckin’ disciplined. Big Sam and his love of Brexit, and hitting balls into the channels. Owen Coyle and his love for saying Barclays, pronounced “Barc-lays”. Moyesie, everybody loves Moyesie. Louis Van Gaal and his love for a minsch pie.
In latter years we’ve had the endless human drama of Coach Solskjaer at Manchester United until that ended, and Fat Frank failing upwards and then inevitably downwards and further downwards with his brave young English Chelsea Lions. Bielsa’s Latin passion and love for Leeds. Nathan Jones’s cameo last year, or was it the year before that, was memorable.
But now Klopp is gone, Moyesie is gone, even Rodgers is gone, and Guardiola is going at the end of this season. Ange is going out the door in a few weeks. Who have we got left? Who will we have left? Dychie?
All we have left now are faceless Portuguese and Spanish and German and Dutch and Danish drones focussed on statistics and numbers and “philosophy”. They all look different but you wouldn’t remember they look different, and they all sound the same. The bland leading the bland.
The golden age of the Premier League manager is not about to go, it’s gone.
Don’t forget Alan Pardew or Steve Bruce.
There are so many I have forgotten. I couldn’t include them all.
I forgot 'Arry and his love for resting his elbow on a rolled down car window!
We don’t want extremely accomplished polyglot continentals with their superior football knowledge, calm temperament and professional interview techniques. We want spivs and headbangers and beloved FOOTBALL MEN from now extinct mining communities in the North East of England or Scotland.
The bland leading the bland is a tremendous line.
Not enough managers wearing club tracksuits and/or benchcoats either. All in smart casual clobber these days.
My kinda thinking
There was Super Steve Kean at Blackburn who we created a fake cult about. He was shite but we pretended to rate him.
There was OUR Big Mick McCarthy, who we didn’t have to pretend to be cultish about.
There was Chris Wilder, Klopp’s Kryptonite, and Phil Brown, with a beautiful bottle tan and a singing voice like somebody being anally raped. There was Big Baldy Bob Bradley playing sawker at Swansea, and Gallant Garry Monk, the new, short lived Dychie. There was Avram Grant who genuinely did get the Chelsea job as part of some bizarre Jewish world conspiracy. There was Alex McLeish, the Midlands relegator, and Nigel Pearson, who said in deathly serious tones “are you an ostrich, do you have the flexibility to get your head in the sand?”
There were bland blancmanges who came along, men ahead of their time, but they quickly departed. Pellegrini, Villas Boas, Laudrup.
When Sky Sports wanted to hype a title race, they’d flash up big pictures of the managers involved.
FERGUSON versus DALGLISH
FERGUSON versus KEEGAN
FERGUSON versus WENGER
FERGUSON versus MOURINHO
FERGUSON versus MANCINI
KLOPP versus GUARDIOLA
The HYPE MACHINE.
In the future it will be:
Arteta V Hurzeler
Maresca V Glasner
Silva V Frank
Iraola V Lopetegui
There will be Munster hurling on the television.
A proper football man wears a flower in the breast pocket of their blazer. Only on big occasions. Once you had the flower in the pocket, you knew this was serious.
Or Big Sam?