My football club, Leyton Orient, are in the throes of a massive disruption at the moment. During the summer, in a fit of temporary madness, some Italian billionaire or other decided to buy the club. Why he chose to do this now, and why Orient is between him and his wayward marbles.
The club, which admittedly, is debt-free, thanks to the good offices of its previous owner, Barry Hearn, is in a parlous state otherwise. Local rivals West Ham are about to move into a new ground a stone's throw from Orient's. They, being a top-flight outfit (at least in name), will purloin Orient's traditional catchment area for fans. Much as I love The Os, I wouldn't wish supporting them on my worst enemy. I support them because I have too; that's where I'm from. You have to be born or at the very least have spent your formative years in their (vee small) catchment. Basically, there's a 2 mile segment of about 240 degrees to the north and east of the club's ground inside which sentiment demands you support them. To the south is West Ham territory. And any further than 2 miles from the ground brings you into the gravitational fields of any number of massive London clubs.
It should be clear to even the dullest Italian wit then that this is a club that will never attract a large and moneyed cohort to its home games. And that presupposes that the club survives the West Ham scandal at all.
Added to this, our Italian has behaved in the way all billionaires do, i.e. to threaten and demand instant success. As a direct consequence of this hectoring in broken English, our long-serving manager resigned on Wednesday. So far, so poor.
Why are billionaires so cliquéd? Is it because they give all their mental energies to cultivating money? Perhaps.
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