When reading some of the punditry surrounding Hearts’ appointment of Ian Cathro as their new Head Coach, The Clumpany has been reminded of a parent talking to a small child who has brought home a painting from nursery.
The parents think it is a horrible mess still dripping with paint, snot and nappy leakage. And try as they might, they can’t simply say “That’s lovely. Well done”, put it on the wall and let the world carry on. Instead, a note of condescension creeps into their voices and they exchange knowing looks with each other.
“Oh isn’t that fantastic!”
“Did you think of that design all by yourself?”
“Without any help from the big children?”
“Such imaginative use of colours!”
“And so modern in style!”
“You’ll have a REALLY bright future with talent like that!”
“We award you a gold star for your work!”
“Would you like some fish fingers for dinner?”
Assuming they give the first flying f*ck (and I hope they don’t), Hearts and Cathro could be forgiven for feeling throughly patronised by much of the Scottish commentariat in recent days.
Although hopefully they have had a great laugh at Kris Void’s mean-spirited wibblery.
Words like bold, imaginative, fascinating, cerebral, innovative and experimental are being bandied about in a way that suggests a number of them think Hearts are actually completely insane for not appointing a ‘usual suspect’/ dinosaur as their manager.
Oh yes, and the word ‘hipster’ has been used as well.
I’ve no idea what the above Tweet meant either, but I am glad Keith took the trouble to turn on Twitter last night to post it.
I can imagine that the Scottish hipster labs – where hipster experiments are conducted – are a sight to behold! Lots of trendy beards growing in glass cabinets, and artisan food for sale in the canteen (deep fried of course in an achingly ironic nod to ‘local culture’).
As is always the case, Cathro will ultimately have to do his talking via the team’s performances on the pitch. However, you get the distinct impression that some commentators will be absolutely delighted to see him fall flat on his face. And preferably on top of his laptop.
I wish him well, and if he manages to make the Condescension Crew eat their sneering words by dragging Scottish football a little further into the Twenty-First Century, he will have done the game as a whole a big favour.