From One Butcher To Another

Due to a minor ebola outbreak in the Meat Clinic, I have not been to any of Wycombe’s home games (whichever doomed ground they are currently playing at) this season, so Sunday’s TV match with TV Terry Butcher’s Brentford will be the first time the new players make any sort of impression on my eyes.

The frothing rage from the clientele who come into Brill’s finest meat emporium has been characterised by one strong sentiment: The new players are great it’s the manager’s fault he can’t get them playing like a boom machine.

I’m no expert on these matters but most of the players signed in the summer were so low on the world radar that few Wycombe fans will have ever seen them before. So how do they know that they are any great shakes? Give Lambo Lambert a heaving war-chest and I’m sure he’d have signed different men. SPL rejects smell of Irn Bru and Bucky, and neither stench has a history of success in our greasy lanes.

The shuddering Drone Army should give Lambert more time to try and wring some sort of performance out of the new chaff but instead they wail and whinge and demand a new manager, one with deep reserves of that most pointless of attributes, PASSION. Sadly, one look at Brentford on Sunday will prove that passion remains as pointless as ever. It is hard to find a more blood-soaked, fleck-toothed passion wagon than Terry Butcher, but he remains as useful at football management as I am at point-to-point horse racing. And his autobiography remains the worst book ever committed to print in human history.

07.09.2007. 20:22

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