so, it seems more than likely that come late summer next year, after another dull, artless and amateur campaign and another major recycling effort to rid us of "ingerland won the euros" merchandise. the eastern european beer mountain will be levelled, the shares in pickle companies will have peaked and a text from Lancaster Gate will drop from the ether into the i-phone of an Italian, interrupting his porn. ahem, opera virals , and the golden generation will officially be at an end. "they were tired" will lead the redtops. As that very text sends our padre back to his gondola and its cornetto logjam, another had already landed amidst the jellied eels, pie and mash and 'arrybos (iron -flavoured), inviting our ruddy-faced smiling, darntoearth hero to vacate the lofty hallows overlooking the N17 traffic and move westish to occupy the arched bowling green near that market and drive thru macdonalds. farsands of geezers on the high road wil debate the worth of the red-nap, and we may or may not be back in the Cl, with or without modic , bales fourth broken toe, van der vaart's motorised zimmer and crouch's news of the world revelations that he , too, shagged ryan giggs and his brother and sepp blatter and pippa middletoff. amidst the nuclear fallout (well, wimper out), who do we really want as our next project manager? and who will we actually get? martin o'neill. you read it here first.