Oh dear. Robbie Keane’s great, romantic footballing story-arc, his epic journey between the twin tracksuit capitals of the world, has all gone wrong. His boyhood dream, to wear Liverpoo-el’s appalling array of away jerseys and training gear professionally, was realised but, alas, only fleetingly. He now has to return to what his former Scouse colleagues call “that London”, with his €5 Tallaght barber’s haircut firmly between his legs. Said training gear will now be put away in a (bad) memory box to show his grandchildren, or maybe given away to ‘youth development’ projects. Particularly those tasteful grey ones. When Manchester United played in a grey shirt during the ’90s, Alex Ferguson claimed his players couldn’t see each other on the pitch; you can only imagine how this goes down with young shoplifters men who normally wear hoodies to remain anonymous out in the street.
As for Keane, IHGN wishes him well back in Tottnumb ‘Otspur, and is thankful that he didn’t succumb, like so many Liverpool players before him (Souness, Lawrenson, McDermott, Rush, Grobelaar, etc.), to a dodgy ‘tache. All the same, we’re fairly certain that his other boyhood dream, the beyond-clichéd “finish my career at Celtic”, is still on course; Scotland being, after all, the natural home of all past-it Premiership players, particularly those whose banjo-to-cow’s arse ratio has latterly been slipping.
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