While the novice coach was clearly not a good fit, the lesson here is that billionaire owners are not always right after all
R
un Liam, run. Don’t look back. Wrench off the hazmat suit. Scoot past the security gates where the guards are already writhing and frothing at the mouth. And exit the compound for good, ice-white trainers pounding the dirt track, designer hoodie flapping.
For Liam Rosenior the urge now must be to put as much distance as possible between himself and what is, if not the strangest and most illiterate footballing project of all time, then surely the strangest and most illiterate yet. Welcome to BlueCo Chelsea, a place where blaming the manager for the on-field spectacle feels a bit like complaining that the scientists inside the Chernobyl nuclear plant still haven’t washed up the canteen coffee cups.
The moment it first became clear on Wednesday morning that Rosenior really was going to be sacked was when news emerged that Chelsea’s executive were having a meeting. Business theory generally suggests the opposite. Having a meeting is the best way to ensure nothing actually gets done. But this is to forget the true nature of what you’re dealing with here. Which is: rainmakers, alpha-dogs, finance super-bros. In a roomful of swinging dicks, a dick will ultimately have to be swung.
