Just stumbled across this article -
http://www.vice.com/en_uk/read/alan-pardews-paying-for-his-faustian-pact - found it a pretty good read actually.
Not to mention, it has some right little gems in it:
And that's when it went weird, because he didn't fail. He started winning. Then kept winning and made some of the best signings in recent Premier League history. Armed with only Alan Carr's dad, he jacked Wenger's steez by raiding France for a slew of incredible players. Nobody could work out what had gone wrong. How could a man as innately dislikeable and untrustworthy as Pardew turn himself into a genius? It was like Mick Hucknall becoming Brian Eno overnight, in that it didn’t make sense.
Can we separate the man from his work, we asked? Can you apply the "death of the author" to a dugout? And more than that, the fans of the Premier League seemed to be thinking, 'How the fuck is this twat doing this?'
Comments
The price of breaking this man's eight-year contract? Ten million quid.