In the past month alone, their numbers have been decimated. They have been culled like badgers, like diseased cattle. Thrown onto a farm bonfire and left to burn, baby, burn. They have been defenestrated. Decapitated. Hung (and drawn, and quartered) out to dry.
It’s a wonder some charity purporting to ‘stand-up’ for endangered species has not become involved.
National Disgrace
It’s a national disgrace our puffin-faced PM, Diddy David Cameron, has not erected himself in the House of Commons. Slapped a heavy, gold-bracelet-weighted wrist onto the despatch box. And told us we’re not having it. (Or maybe that we might be having it in a few years time: don’t listen to those rebel back-benchers.) It defies belief a national day of mourning has not been called. We should, right now, be lining the streets, hats clasped to our chests, trousers at half-mast. Clocks should be stopped, drums muffled. Muzzle that dog who wants a juicy bone.
For they are… Well, they’re not dead, but they’re as good as. They are not Premier League managers any more. They have gone gentle into that good night, or they have raged against the dying of the light, but, ultimately, it has come to nought.
You can read my full article on the Premier League’s Game of Thrones from the Home Defence UK website here.
Or you can read more of my sportswriting here (this is a link to my Manchester United book, ‘Fergie’s Finest’, which I might have mentioned one or two times on here).
