Dead Hard

So, Alan Pardew’s recent brush with authority has earned him a seven match ban and a 60k fine. I suppose it could’ve been worse for the Newcastle manager though to listen to some of the over-reaction you’d think he was looking at a stretch in stir. His actions were certainly foolish but anyone who saw him waft his head in the face of Hull City’s David Meyler could see it was just a bit of silly macho posturing. A head butt? I think not. Having lived much of my life in Liverpool and Glasgow I found the moral outrage more than a little laughable.

That said, Pards has got touchline previous and some kind of anger management counselling would seem to be in order. Last season he was done for shoving a fourth official and just a few weeks back was caught on camera hurling abuse at Manchester City boss Manuel Pellegrini, calling him a ‘******* old ****’. It’s not the done thing but when we put aside matters of decorum one question remains: is Pards one of the Premier League’s hard men managers or is he just a windbag?

And while we’re discussing it, what about the others? Can they handle themselves?

I decided to take a look at how I imagine Hollywood would portray each of the PL managers if they were cast in films as villains. How would you be bumped off if you were one of their victims?

In no particular order then …

Jose Mourinho (Chelsea): Sniper. Quick and efficient. You wouldn’t even see it coming. Verdict: Clinical.

Tony Pulis (Crystal Palace): Naked wrestling. Afterwards you’d be dismembered, diced and dropped into an acid bath. Verdict: Deranged.

David Moyes (Man Utd): A long, drawn out, tedious demise. Death by a thousand cuts. Verdict: Messy.


Arsene Wenger (Arsenal): Exploding cigar. Verdict: Farcical.

Mark Hughes (Stoke City): Brake and accelerator pedals tampered with in your car. Verdict: Nasty.

Brendan Rodgers (Liverpool): Knuckleduster and baseball bat. The old one-two, thank you and goodnight. Verdict: Savage.

Mauricio Pochettino (Southampton): Poison tipped umbrella. Verdict: Inventive.

Roberto Martinez (Everton): Honeytrap. While snoozing after sex you’d get smothered with a pillow. Verdict: Sleazy.

Ole Gunnar Solskjaer (Cardiff City): You’d be fed to ravenous pigs while he stands watching impassively behind glass, sipping a glass of milk. Verdict: Psychopathic.

Steve Bruce (Hull City): He’s old school. No need for anything fancy. A couple of snooker balls in a sock and down you’d go. None of that continental malarkey. Tried and trusted. Verdict: Traditional.

Paul Lambert (Aston Villa): Will surreptitiously feed you suicide inducing poison. Verdict: Weird.

Gus Poyet (Sunderland): Garrote. Verdict: Vicious.

Felix Magath (Fulham): Cosh. Verdict: Brutal.


Tim Sherwood (Spurs): Axe. Verdict: Unhinged.

Chris Hughton (Norwich City): Would lure you to a multi-storey car park then push you off the top. Verdict: Demented.

Manuel Pellegrini (Man City): Sleeve-concealed blade. Some kung-fu moves and a pocket full of ninja stars as back up. Verdict: Bloodthirsty.

Garry Monk (Swansea City): Will taser you then zip you into a straitjacket. You’d be hung upside down from a meat hook in some seedy dockside lock-up. Verdict: Nutter.

Pepe Mel (West Brom): Will keep his hands clean. He’d simply pick up the phone. Next day you’d be bundled into the back of a white van never to be seen again. Verdict: Chilling.

Oppdal 01.11.2009 : GŒrdssag pŒ Engan. Foto: Thor Nielsen

Sam Allardyce (West Ham): Conveyor belt, sawmill, feet first, legs slightly apart, on a very slow speed. Verdict: Masochistic.

So there you have it. A pretty gruesome bunch I’m sure you’ll agree and plenty for the Hollywood script writers to get their teeth into. What of Mr Pardew himself? Well, I think he’s covering up a basic niceness with his schoolboy behaviour. Disney rom-coms beckon. There’s always a vacancy in Tinseltown for a gormless, but lovable Brit. Verdict: It’s a Wrap.

The Puma

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