So he’s gone. Eleven minutes after his last attempt to stitch a simple flesh wound, and Dr. Grayson was struck off for gross incompetence.
What should have been a routine procedure by a seasoned footballing surgeon with eleven and a half years of experience behind him turned into another night of unnecessary pain for his patients.
Bolton Wanderers presented him with a rudimentary task. It should have been an elemental exercise for a skilled professional to tie up the loose ends of this primitive procedure but like most of his surgeries, Grayson was less like Dr. Gregory House and more like Edward Scissor Hands, creating further gaping slash wounds the more he tried to fix it.
Only a couple of months ago I wrote an article entitled ‘The Botched Vasectomy of Sunderland football Club’ as a reaction to our dismal and desperate relegation.
I wasn’t certain at the time if our faltering star would fall any lower, but here we are again in the depths of embarrassment. But it is apparent that the botched vasectomy of our footballing institution has not yet reached the extremity of its bloody conclusion.
Indeed our sporting vasectomy is fast becoming a hatchet back street castration. Our metaphoric testacies are still there, but in name only.
WWE alumni Mick Foley used to describe bravery as “testicular fortitude” and when it comes to courage in the dressing room, we are not just toothless, we lack other crucial bodily components too.
To maintain the medical metaphor, the surgeons who have spearheaded the procedures of our footballing clinic over the last number of years have performed a series of blunderous and botched surgeries that have left an unlimited amount deep scars - many unhealed and a litany of parts that no longer function as enthusiastically as they used to. Some patients of lost heart altogether.
In almost every sense the team at the top, responsible for the welfare and wellbeing of their attendees have murderously and blood thirstily trimmed, snipped, sliced, diced and chain-sawed their way through nearly every functioning connection that would make the organ of this club and its dangling support network operate in unison and harmony.
Yes it still kind of works. The squad flop around flaccidly pretending they might enjoy ourselves given half the chance, but when push comes to shove they cannot or will not stand tall - indeed, they shrink like genitals submerged in the North Sea in the middle of a snow filled January.
Yes, Grayson was not as precise as surgeons need to be but he has paid the price. What of his squad of student doctors who can’t cut through a defence, can’t angle a pass, can’t follow instructions and give up half way through an operation as soon as the procedure becomes even marginally complex?
Grayson has taken the fall and rightly so, but ineptitude and cowardice are not his burdens to share alone.
Indeed, gutlessness was not an issue for Grayson as a man. In many ways he was courageous to take on this sinking ship. But, despite his self-belief, he was unable to successfully or generously endow his team with a sufficient amount of inner strength to muster any form of reasonable stiff upper lip.
They are feeble. Brittle.
Any number of his charges who proclaim they gave their all for Grayson’s cause are delusional, bare faced perjurers or, in limited cases, simply not good enough to make any kind of impact despite their industry - and that is almost as sad.
The whole club is depressed and flattened by a lack of care, a negligible communication effort that seemingly does not exist in any useful format - except to confirm the most vague aspects of its operations that we can all find for ourselves via twitter.
In the past I have described Martin Bain as a conniving spin doctor, but perhaps “plain old liar” is more of an accurate description after all. We are left swinging in the wind with nothing but rose tinted memories of how things used to be.
Remember the naïve excitement of the days of Dr Quinn, Medicine Man? Of Nurse Keane, the carer with a harsh exterior but a caring and tender inside that would show itself in times of need?
Chief of Operations Martin Bain was credited by Grayson merely days ago as someone who ‘has improved the club since he’s been here.’ He has failed miserably.
Ellis Short who claims - third hand via his bag man Bain - that he still deeply cares for this club can no longer claim any reasonable credibility for his loyalty. Under his charge we have lost sporting oxygen and have slowly crept towards a footballing graveyard. His austerity measures have left us unable to perform the kind of operations that would transform lives and bring the feelings of enthusiasm flowing back to where it belongs.
Yet there are no answers.
We are left lame - allowed to struggle, limping towards a blackhole.
Can you imagine suffering from a condition that required a surgical procedure and then suffering a surgery as rudderless and hopeless as this, with incompetent and unqualified butchers holding nothing spatulas or second hand Swiss Army Knives in their hands?
It would be impossible to feel safe, to feel positive. It would be inconceivable to feel like your needs, wishes and welfare are the top priority of these clownish amateurs.
The ties between supporters and club have been twisted, tortured and then cut.
Is there a reconstructive surgery available to fix this mess?! I am not optimistic. Certainly not when Slasher-in-Chief Martin Bain wields an axe like Jason Vordes with unmediated attention deficit disorder.
Yes, Grayson has gone - the way of Keane, Bruce, Di Canio, Poyet, Advocaat et all, but we’ve just snipped the top of the weed.
The roots still remain and I’m hoping, indeed praying that some qualified German geniuses or perhaps some Chinese Mackems with an unusual love of pasties and curry batter buns will remove our Head Surgeon Ellis Short and begin a long operation of careful and responsible restructuring.
Only when he is gone will the sun shine brighter on Wearside.