Ship of fools
So the dark clouds are gathering in the once golden south. Families and friends are thrown into turmoil as optimism fades and the relentless pressure rises.
No, there you go again with the weather…alright, the Cotswolds does look like Bangladesh, but you are just catching up, that’s all…where I come from this is a drop of light drizzle!
This approaching disaster is no act of God, it’s purely man made and while it has seemed at many points avoidable, it now appears inevitable.
This disaster will mean years of pain and soul searching, a deperate fight for survival will replace lofty ambition.
It’s our Football club that’s sinking, not an Oxfordshire village. A journey that probably started long before the age of the Thompson’s is approaching its destination. The false dawn of the post-administration years is beginning to spiral down the plughole.
We’ve travelled a treacherous path these last dozen years, suffering a crew that wanted out, an enthusiastic amateur out of his depth and a bunch of faceless nobodies prepared to pay top dollar for any acne-riddled youth who managed not to tie their bootlaces together. Finally we have been left with our current company, a rag tag, motley squabble of pirates and weekend sailors, wanabees and never would-be’s playing at running a football club.
So, becalmed, awaiting our fate, we speculate on our limited choices. Haphazardly drifting on, preying for twentieth place and a player or two to sell each season. Eleven thousand becoming ten, ten becoming nine. Each desperate year the manager talking vaguely of the playoffs until the leaves start turning and ‘getting points over Christmas’ becomes the winter mantra…the only difference will be the manager, we won’t always have he one who doesn’t realise he’s looking more and more like Lionel Blair.
If this scene is not to be played out then it would appear we have two stark choices, roll over into administration and hope to resurface someway further down the food chain, battered but hopefully still intact or like fifty or so other league clubs we could continue scanning the horizon for a sugar daddy (or Mummy…I’m not sexist). The latter is often suggested on the myriad boards, a seemingly easy option that will wipe our tears away and ease our collected furrowed brow. Is this really an answer? Do we really want an Amnesty International pursued ex-dictator arriving on our doorstep, talking about the Champions League and frozen assets? Maybe we do a Leeds and sell our souls to the Devil?(Albeit a devil that looks like Father Christmas!).
I know what you are thinking, another whiney article bemoaning our state and offering nothing constructive, no possible solution. Those that sit and moan are part of the problem…all right, all right, calm down!
I have a cunning plan…well a thought to throw at our plight.
The news recently talked of a future superpower, growing rapidly, who have sectioned off vast quantities of working capital from its gross national income to invest in western concerns. What if a football club, failing, but with a little bit of history, a reputation (fast fading) for good exciting play and players and in desperate need of regeneration was to be open to new money. What if this country already knew of this club, had already established ’sporting’ links?
Oh yes…we sell to the CHINESE!!!!
Whaddyathink, huh! C’mon, don’t dismiss it out of hand…alright we’ll need to mend a few fences, but…wait a sec…Don’t press the back button, I…(CLICK!)
Rogue Male
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