Upwardly Mobile
Now then, now then, as a wise old scholar once said. Well, I say wise. You have to wonder about the cunning of a man whose favourite indulgences include highly-flammable daywear and smoking cigars the size of bicycle pumps. He could probably choose his photo ops better, too. Yes, that’s Frank Bruno. And Peter Sutcliffe. The Yorkshire Ripper.
On a lighter note, (I fear we’ve ambled into somewhat murky waters) more splendid stuff from the chaps in navy and white this weekend; another potential away day banana skin neatly traversed and the good times they-is-a-rolling. You get the impression that Roberto Martinez’s heart may’ve sank a few inches during the opening exchanges at the Dee-Double-You, as Tottenham’s modus operandi looked to be to blow his Wigan lot off the park as quick as humanly possible. Stop giggling at the back. Two early goals from Van der Vaart and the boy Bale and all of a sudden the Spaniard’s forehead was looking awfully sodden. His eyes wandering surreptitiously toward the exits as Dave Whelan cries from the executive box: I’m not bloody refunding them again!
Fortunately for Señor Roberto, his rabble didn’t collapse so eagerly this time out- instead they pulled their socks north and remembered that golden rule about the best form of attack. To literally attack. For best results target the opposition’s niftiest players and the higher in the air you can kick them, very much the better. Reducers, I think they’re called in the business. Our Gareth has since said that he doesn’t mind all the rough-housing he’s been subjected to recently- in fact he sees it rather as a compliment. They’re made of stern stuff in the valleys, it seems. As are the mighty Hotspur who’ve climbed the table at quite a rate. Shamrock up on Thursday then you-know-what on Sunday. Yikes.
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