King Power: Leicester City’s Remarkable Season. Richard III

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      And what of Edward, eighth of his name to sit upon England’s throne, Nazi manqué, traitor king, who broke George V’s heart by frolicking with Maryland’s strumpet of whom ’twas said she learned such nether-region tricks in those same bawdy houses of Orient whence our Thai dancing girls did come?

      And did you ever see Thor, a favourite movie of mine I must confess (loved that flying hammer! Could’ve done with that at Bosworth), wherein the thunder god did Odin sore distress by warring with the Frost Giants in defiance of the Asgardian sovereign’s will.

      Boys shalt be boys, or so we used to say, and thus it was in covert days of yore. But in the age of videocamera phone, which captureth the image as it moves, boys at their grave peril be boys, and oft times at the peril of their dads.

      Once James Pearson was from the King Power flung, the writing for his sire was ’pon the wall, though perhaps it had been there already a little while, in pencil scrawled if not by inky quill. For Nigel would not lightly kiss the ring, so thus displeased the owners from Siam, or so at least it feels safe to assume.

      While the cliché holds it be the case, that for yes-men the powerful hold contempt, the truth could not be more to the obverse. ’Tis sycophants we rulers value most, and those who dare say nay to us we hate. A little life lesson there for you office folk. Make thy tongues as brown as the pelt of a deer roaming the forest in autumn if thou wouldst get on.

      With James’s dismissal the final straw did come, and on 30 June a club statement issued forth. I quoth the proclamation here verbatim, a touch précis’d only for concision:

      Regrettably, the club believes that the working relationship between Nigel and the board is no longer viable. It has become clear that fundamental differences in perspective exist between us … We trust that the supporters will recognise that the owners have always acted with the best interests of the club at heart and with the long-term future as their greatest priority.

      This trust of which they spoke was pure phantasm, the fans recognising no such noble intent. To them, ’twas folly to dispense with he who so lately the bonds of hope from doom had forged, and brought on players – our most beloved Vardy, the subtle Mahrez, brave Morgan at the back, those stout English yeomen Albrighton and Drinkwater, whom I would have had at my side at Tewkesbury, and more; to each and every one we’ll shortly come – who would ere long be the darlings of the league.

      But hark, who comest now with heart in which wrath and rage be aflicker?

      Why, it’s our onetime Foxes golden boy, the crisp salesman Gary Lineker.

      The mellow Lineker had ne’er been so cross since Graham Taylor took him off in that game when he was but one shy of Bobby Charlton’s scoring record of forty-nine England goals. Yet at eventide of 30 June, when Pearson’s demise had barely yet sunk in, he did tweet forth like an outraged sparrow – and not once, but in quick succession twice.

      Gary Lineker

      @GaryLineker

      Leicester City have sacked Nigel Pearson! Really? WTF! Could you kindly reinstate him like the last time you fired him?

      7:41 PM – 30 Jun 2015

      Gary Lineker

      @GaryLineker

      Getting LCFC promoted and the greatest escape ever, Pearson is sacked? Are the folk running football stupid? Yes

      8:05 PM – 30 Jun 2015

      Stupid is as stupid doth, as Mother Gump observed. Reflecting with the hindsight fools revere, though ’tis to wisdom as iron pyrites is to gold, Lineker looks the stupid one today. Yet I would not affect to have felt other than he that day.

      WTF? I too thought to myself. (Even though I do LOL at the recollection now!) Why hast thou dispensed with Nige, and who in devil’s name will coach us now?

      Now, any managerial hiring is like a box of chocolates. Never do you know what you’re gonna get. Unless you hire Steve McClaren. Then you know exactly what you’re gonna get. Otherwise ’tis a gamble, even as throwing a die three times upon the ground, and hoping each time to see a six.

      Yet for too long in this vexing case, the board knew not who they were gonna get.

      The brief hiatus between old and new season is an evil time to be bereft of helmsman. War has its close season too, of course, and its transfer window when generals barter for fresh troops.

      E’en thus it was when I led white-ros’d York,

      Fearing defection by soldiers with tongues of fork,

      Who might switch from white to foul Lancastrian red –

      As Sol Campbell, traitor, left Spurs for Arsenal’s bed.

      The point, my friends, is this. There are players to be sold, players to be loaned in and out, players to be purchas’d from all corners of the world … It’s a vital time. You can’t afford to be without a boss in the close season. That’s mental.

      With Pearson gone, the Foxes had no boss, though many names were touted for the berth. Sean Dyche of Burnley contended early doors, as did David Moyes who to balmy Sociedad had repaired after being impaled by Manchester United sword (mutual consent my Plantagenet arse).

      Many wished that Martin O’Neill, a Foxes manager before, like Pearson be given a second crack. Sam Allardyce was also in the lists, howe’er he be too portly for the joust. So too was Harry Redknapp, from whose eyes shines gospel truth. Yet he had departed QPR but a few months before, citing arthritic soreness in his knee as cause of that, and not the Superhoops’ most grievous form, which saw them finish in last place, the twentieth spot not long before earmarked for us. And though Honest Hal did disavow that lame excuse, and claimed that others advanced it unbeknownst to him, even as Shakespeare bestowed false cripplehood on me, the damage to his chances was surely done.

      More besides were rumoured for the job, such as Neil Lennon with hair the fading red of flame, and cherubic Eddie Howe who at plucky Bournemouth prospers yet. But whosoe’er was touted was flouted by the board, until Foxes fans muttered in despair, ‘Lord have mercy, not Sven-Göran Eriksson again.’

      And when at last the choice of boss was made, and the new gaffer was in midst July revealed, ’twas a name that had been spoken of by none.

      So great was the shock, the ague did take hold, and tongues that would speak out in rage were stilled, though ’twould be not long ere power of speech returned, and angry birds such as Lineker to Twitter turned.

      And this was the consensus when they did, to paraphrase a little if I might.

      Oh Jesus wept, no. Not the fucking Tinkerman.

III

       … LONG LIVE THE KING!

      When raised up to the throne by head of steam,

      First test for a new king is e’er the same,

      Be he monarch or coach in the beautiful game:

      Stick СКАЧАТЬ