On a balmy January afternoon, one mans managerial debut was expected to be the pancea to salvage a wretched season. What transpired was anything but. Sir Geoffrey Howe once stood up in the houses of parliament and likened his stewardship as foreign secretary, under Margaret Thatcher to that of a batsman with a smashed bat facing the West Indian fast-bowlers. Mikos now shares that ignominious fate.
From the off, they were up against it; Coco's chronographical apocalypse aside. With Daz carrying his entrails like a wounded Vietnam infantryman, and others carrying knocks, it was always going to be a struggle; add to that the Legends self-imposed exile, and the hapless Flames guarding the onion bag. You can draw your own conclusions. Such dreadful preparations could only be matched by the Beast's terminal failure to communicate which kit should be worn several weeks earlier. Grown men shouldn't be made to wear red bra's.
What was not needed was an early goal; so in true WNSS fashion, Flames and Guido conspired to deliver one. The frustration was palpable as Flames booted the ball up Guido's arse once, twice, and a third for good measure.
Can things get any worse
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