Is there anybody out there?
I suspected the weekly column might be in a bit of trouble when the Commander In Chief got on the blower and said: “Keano’s been talking about Stan and the Irish job. It’s cracking stuff. We’ll be going big on this.”
“Righty-o,” I chirped back, “you’ll be wanting just a tad less than my usual 1,500 words of wisdom, then?”
“Just a tad,” he affirmed. “Like, think of Keano’s stuff as a letter and your contribution as...”
“An insightful accompanying think piece?”
“No, more like the postage stamp.”
So His Corkness isn’t even the Irish manager — yet — and already he’s putting the media in its place.
I say ‘yet’ because although he rules himself out of the running this time, I’m inclined to take that as cast-iron confirmation that he’ll be announced as the new boss of the Republic of Ireland by lunchtime tomorrow. If not earlier. As an avid student of the form book, I can’t help but note that after Roy retired from playing football, he managed to leave us all with the impression that he would be spending some considerable time away from the cutting edge of the game, availing of the opportunity to pursue other interesting leisure pursuits. Scuba-diving, I seem to recall, was mentioned.
Approximately 10 minutes later, frost-bitten strollers on the beach in Sunderland were startled by the sudden emergence from of the waves of two frogmen. They pulled off their masks and — hey presto! — were revealed to be none other than the fantasy football double act of Keano and Quinny, come to save a drowning club.
The moral of the story? When it comes to the always fascinating game of ‘What Keano did next’, the handiest rule of thumb is to quote the great man himself: ‘‘never say never.’’
But let’s take a mad plunge here and imagine that he doesn’t get the gig. So who should? Well, I’m really glad you asked me that question. Not.
Last time around, Martin O’Neill was so clearly the outstanding name that it was easy to eliminate everyone else in the notional running. Except that for a combination of personal and professional reasons, O’Neill himself was never really a credible candidate then and, now, is happily enough ensconced at Villa Park unless and until England come a-calling.
This time, it’s different. That David O’Leary has now been given the nod from Keano will certainly carry a lot of weight in the public arena, if not necessarily behind the green door in Merrion Square. There’s something about the cut of O’Leary’s jib that seems to rub a lot of folk up the wrong way, from sections of the media to some of his former colleagues on the international scene.
And a lot of people couldn’t help cringing at O’Leary’s repeated references to his “babies” when at the helm of Leeds United.
What no one can deny is that the Dubliner is the most successful top-level Irish manager currently available for the job, and Roy Keane’s complimentary comments aren’t likely to damage his standing as the bookie’s favourite.
Meanwhile, Martin Jol is merely the latest candidate to “enter the frame” — as we like to say when endeavouring to cover all bases. “Maybe Stan will get the Spurs job,” chortled one wag yesterday, “not that I’d wish him on them.”
Actually, it should be the other way round: you wouldn’t wish Spurs on Staunton or anyone else, after the way the club sought to undermine the Dutchman who’d brought them on a lot in the last couple of years.
Of one thing I’m certain, however — I don’t want Big Ron anywhere near the Irish job. And nor should the FAI, if they are even remotely serious about their efforts towards the goal of an inclusive, multi-cultural game in this country.
No offence, Ron, of course, that’s just a turn of phrase, like.
My other great idea for the week is that the FAI do the media a big favour by plugging all leaks and keeping the selection process firmly under wraps. And, I mean, not a peep. They can ask the lads in the Vatican for advice on this. Then Merrion Square can just surprise us one fine day by announcing the thing at a moment’s notice and laying on the tea and triangular sandwiches, and we’ll all happily turn up to see who leaps out of the giant, football-shaped cake.
Anything, anything, to spare us the daily torture of having to speculate endlessly between now and the day of destiny.
Not that I expect anyone is listening to me, of course, what with the racket from Yer Man next door.
As the FAI might put it: Hello. Hello. Is there anybody out there?
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