WHO’S NEXT?
Like a Christmas day can of John West tuna chunks for one with an accompanying bottle of champagne and war movie triple-bill chez Richard Keys, Tottenham Hotspur Football Club is the gift that keeps on giving. Like Gregory Peck’s crack commando unit attempting to silence the eponymous guns of Navarone, Spurs currently find themselves in an extremely high-stakes race against time only to be repeatedly thwarted at every turn by a mixture of internal sabotage, the at times unbearable burden of leadership and immense dissatisfaction among the rank and file. The mission? To escape an ignominious, financially ruinous slide into the Championship. The plan? A chaotic improvisation that suggests the club hierarchy are just making things up as they go along, one ill-judged managerial appointment at a time.
