A McCarthy Witch Hunt
If Mick McCarthy was a holiday he’d be a wet week in a caravan in the Corley services on the M6. And when I say wet I mean it pissing it down. And when I say pissing I mean actual urine. To watch him be interviewed is to be hit repeatedly in the face by a very pessimistic spade.
No man has ever approached the highest stratus of football with such a hardy sense of defeatism. Given the opportunity to build on a fortifying victory at White Hart Lane against a crumbly United team bouncing off defeat themselves, McCarthy threw in a thousand towels. To protect his team for more winnable bouts ahead. Come off it Michael, it’s a football pitch not the killing fields of Ypres. The turf isn’t littered with the tiny shards of your half-empty glass.
I wonder what happened to McCarthy’s pride and hope. Maybe they’re up his bollocks where Roy Keane stuck them.