As a long-suffering Bristol Rovers fan, your photo of Bert Tann retrieving his golf ball from a stream (yesterday’s Memory Lane, full email edition) reminded me that he was our manager when I was growing up.
I loved the picture of Jude Bellingham seeing red from yesterday’s Quote of the Day, although I still can’t shake the notion that the real reason for his comically astonished fizzog is that Vinícius Jr has just revealed the true age of Luka Modric to Birmingham’s finest export” – Colin Reed.
An England manager should know their Toddington from their Watford Gap, their Pease Pottage from their Knutsford, and be able to quote the price of a Wildbean Cafe meal deal without looking it up for their expense claims.
An England manager is a knight of the road, forever clocking up the mileage in their speedy saloon, unstinting in their efforts to find the next Kalvin Phillips, the one player who can unlock a team’s potential.
A top-division game, a lingering shot of the stands and the posh seats and there in overcoat, aside some simpering dignitary or other, is sat the England manager.
