The world is becoming an increasingly small place for Thomas Frank.
I’m finding the calls to take it out on him individually quite astounding. I cannot view anything without context. Not a thing.
The results are beyond parody; a dull child could tell you that, but one cannot simply ignore the colossal injury list, nor the frankly lunatic approach of the board.
These wretched LinkedIn hires spout the same hot air about assessing this and awareness of that, but they do not act in a meaningful fashion.
The match-day fans moan and groan, but they won’t stop spending. The kids chant ‘sacked in the morning’, and even the old ‘He’s magic, you know’ was given an airing recently, but this is all as effective as sending Santa Claus a letter demanding free stuff at Christmas.
Romero echoed Pacino’s kitchen sink line in the often maligned Godfather 3, ‘Our true enemy has yet to show his face’, by demonstrating his captaincy is no more than another stick to beat the club with. He doesn’t give a solitary fuck about Spurs; this is another episode of ‘I love Cuti’.
Yet another Tottenham coach has been hung out to dry, and while ENIC counts its silver, the football team, the anchor tenant, heads ever downwards, toward the Championship.
‘Tod, good to go down?’ Spurs fans need to address a more burning issue: ‘Are we good enough to stay up?’
Moan and bitch about Frank all you want, I take my coffee with context.
