So Keano misses out on another job. That's the third in recent memory. Here's how bad things have gotten for Keane: his name now seems to be the second or third to the list every time a minor managerial vacancy list pops up. Think of the footballing world like an intercontinental Coppers dancefloor. The football chairmen have their eye on a certain attractive lady, but every now and again, shuffle over to the shadows to have a collegial word with a certain dowdier lady in the shadows with a Cork accent. The chairman knows he has the Cork lady in his backpocket, and has seen the problems she's caused to his friends, but still he keeps her sweet. He needs a fallback in case of catastrophe, and he hopes his prime candidate sees enough of the conversation to feel a slight pang of doubt and have her mind focused.
That's Roy Keane in 2011: pawn.
