Keane Meanz Winz

Johnny and Co debate Roy

Pundit: Not one for hairdryers

Mourinho: Non-descript

Keane: In happier times

Funny old thing, Football. For instance, Roy Keane. In fact, he's a funny old thing all to himself.

Wary

Last Friday in The Mixed Metaphor, the club for pundits in London's fashionable Soho, myself and my two chums were discussing Keane and whether he'd be any good as a manager. Fothergill, the football correspondent of the Light Programme, was wary. "Great players don't necessarily make great managers — just as great managers were sometimes average players at best. Wenger, Sven and Mourinho only ever had very nondescript playing careers."

Huffed

Henry Ham, now football correspondent for the Knitting Channel, huffed and blustered, and wiped beer-foam from his upper lip. "Stuff and nonsense. Some great players make great managers — look at Cloughie. Some don't — look at Peter Shilton. There isn't a trend, for Pete's sake. Just depends on the individual. Thanks Johnny, mine's a pint of mild." I reminded him it was his round. While he pretended to have mislaid his wallet, I opined: "Keane's the sort of fellah that will always get results — he's a trained killer, so players'll be too scared not to. Thing is, that kind of approach only works so far." I barked at Herbert, the ageing waiter, for more drinks. Henry located his wallet, and affected to search throughout its entirety for money.

Mad enough

Fothergill nodded. "Everyone associates Ferguson with the hairdryer treatment. But he's got a lot more in his locker than that - he also knows when to put an arm around a player's shoulders. Thing is, has Keane — or is he just a thousand yard stare and not much more?" Henry paused in his hunt for stray fivers. "And Sunderland haven't had a strong start..." Herbert brought the drinks. Fothergill, with a long-suffering sigh, paid.

"Well," I said, "As pundits the only thing we really know about management is, you'd have to be mad to do it. And Keane is clearly more than mad enough. Fiver says he'll get them to mid-table at least — he's a bright cookie."

Henry's eyes lit up. "Excellent! A wager! Fiver it is!". Then he looked crestfallen. "Er, sorry Fothers — couldn't lend us a few bob, could you...?"



Toodle-pip,

Johnny Pundit