EVERYONE GOES TO BOLTON IN THE END

Funny old thing, Football. For instance, Bolton Wanderers. One of the great old names of English Football. Where all the great old names of non-English football go to die.

Twinges

Let’s face it, Bolton is where the has-beens, yesterday’s megastars and faded super-talents are put out to grass. In some ways, it’s not a bad strategy at all. It’s like the end of the food chain: you get spotted by Arsenal, then bought for millions by Chelsea or United. And finally you wind up at Bolton, experiencing twinges of nostalgia for your chauffeur-driven Merc as you jump off the bus at the Reebok stadium.

Lumbering

Still, can’t wait for the team that’ll trot out at the Reebok in ten years’ time. There’ll be a greying Thierry Henry; a balding John Terry; and a lumbering Didier Drogba (not everything will change in the future, readers). Or in fifteen years’ time: Fabregas feeding passes to Torres and Rooney.

Cackling

All of which leads me to one conclusion. Bolton don’t need a youth policy, or a bigger transfer budget; no, all they need is a potion for reversing the ageing process. If Gary Megson can get that one cracked - I can see him now in his laboratory in the basement of the Reebok, clutching a smoking phial and cackling - then all Bolton’s problems will be solved.

After all, I’d put more money on Megson rescuing Bolton by inventing the impossible than I would on his rescuing Bolton through his management skills.

Yours aye,