A new low for your soaraway Scum this morning, denegrating a man for his speech impediment all over a front page usually reserved for fornicating footballers or licentious soap stars. It's the fearless gibberish of bitter, whiskey-soused gutter-hacks raging against the dying of their might.
These habitual bottom-feeders stamp their feet because on this occasion it wasn't the Sun What Won It. They must have a dossier as thick as a ten year tax audit on 'appy 'Arry, weeks of salacious tidbits to be slipped into the public consciousness throughout Euro 2012. By the time 'we' travel home from the Ukraine, probably in some kind of disgrace, John Terry having taken a dump in a hotel lobby or, more likely, mounted a female reporter during a press conference, the real blood letting can begin.
I think the FA are a bunch of semi-sozzled old Greybeards barely able to clip on their own ties, yet they eschewed the media-driven fervour for Redknapp and went their own way, choosing a thoroughly decent man with an international record that dwarves that of Unappy Arry, Pouty Jose, pooped out Pep and even the Dying King, raving Lord Ferg of Manchester. I'm delighted. Dave 'Harry' Bassett, one-time cohort of Mr Redknapp, revealed yesterday that contrary to popular belief the current Tottenham Hotspurs manager, rather then being Mister Motivator, rarely speaks to some players, favouring a chosen few for his legendary arm-around-the-shoulder
patois. This is not the picture painted in the press. It was implied in some quarters that Harry would invoke some kind of Harfleurian uprising, with hitherto mediocre England players laying waste to all in their path under a bloody, tattered flag of St. George. From the disgruntled mumblings of
long-suffering West Ham and Pompey supporters it sounds as if he's more likely to be found strapped to the toilet chewing his fingers to the bone at the first sign of pressure.
Will Roy win anything with England? Not so long as he's lumbered with a bunch of ageing underacheivers who eat hubris for breakfast and mainline hyberbole with the nonchelance of the long-term addict. I for one wish Hodgson all good things, and thank all concerned for stomping a sensible boot down on the millions of rose-tinted spectacles about to be handed out to those dedicated followers of the national football team.
I very much doubt anyone reading this would buy the Sun. In case you do find yourself, in a moment of terrible weakness, reaching out for that fetid rag, don't.
Don't touch it. It's poison.
