Run Liam, run. Don’t look back. Wrench off the hazmat suit. Scoot past the security gates where the guards are already writhing and frothing at the mouth. And exit the compound for good, ice-white trainers pounding the dirt track, designer hoodie flapping.
For Liam Rosenior the urge now must be to put as much distance as possible between himself and what is, if not the strangest and most illiterate footballing project of all time, then surely the strangest and most illiterate yet. Welcome to BlueCo Chelsea, a place where blaming the manager for the on-field spectacle feels a bit like complaining that the scientists inside the Chernobyl nuclear plant still haven’t washed up the canteen coffee cups.
