A Gong For ‘Arry?

Before the impending pre-match raucous of our jolly up to Manchester this very weekend, I thought I’d give the back pages of the dailies a quick ruffle and see if anything of interest kindly falls out of the other end. Basically: I’m gonna find out what’s been gwarning. Ye get me?

Good.

Pick up most of the national rags this morning and you’d be forgiven for thinking we were in the midst of the slowest news day since the dawn of the printing press. At first glance, the most notable story appears to involve the travelling methods of some Madrid bound Scousers. They took a train, if you’re interest. A bloody great big train.

Elsewhere, however, the damning figures for Pompey’s gallivanting about the big leagues without a licence have finally been revealed. And the outlook is ball crushingly glum. An ice cool £120 million is the reported number in question. Double the original estimate. Whose, exactly, slipshod guesswork that was isn’t altogether clear; probably the same people whose idea it was to start paying agents with caskets of pirate treasure. Whatever the case, it’s a hefty bill.

Better start looking down the back of the sofa, I reckon.

Spurs gossip and our man from the volcanic isles has declared his love for the club. Try as he might to resist our beguiling charms, his heart has been inked blue and lilywhite and a contract is what he’s after. As quickly as the Epson printer will chug one out. One would hope- pending a green light from Monaco- the wheels for that would already be creaking into motion. He’s been splendid for us this term; so splendid, in fact, that the ‘pain’ of losing Celtic’s Player of the Year, Robbie Keane, has vanished with the completeness of an amnesia sufferer trying to remember his wedding day. Heck, don’t stop at a contract, give him the number ten shirt, too. Eidur said this:

‘It was a breath of fresh air coming here. I’m already tempted to stay if the offer is there.’

Lovely.

Oliver Holt from The Mirror reckons ‘Arry should be Manager of the Year. With still plenty left in the season’s tank, perhaps a little early to be handing out the accolades, but you can’t deny the sentiments. Redknapp’s done a remarkable job this campaign, whichever League position we find ourselves occupying. He’s turned us from basement hogging laughing stocks to crack Champions League hunters in eighteen turbulent months. Along the way, coaxing out the best football of Lennon and Defoe’s career, nurturing the brightest young talent in the League in Gareth Bale, and, even, resuscitating the corpse that was the careers of messrs Bentley and Pavlyuchenko. He made us fall back in love with F.A Cup again, too.

Not a bad shift, all things considered.

Manager of The Year?

Ooooh, go on then.