The galling thing is, everyone - literally EVERYONE - knows exactly what to expect from a Tiny Penis team. Four big, slow fuckers at the back, well-drilled lines, forcing you to cross from deep so they can just head it away a million times and you eventually make a mistake out of sheer mind-numbing boredom.
So you have to play in between the lines, get runners from midfield darting into gaps, play little give and gos to take advantage of their lumbering back four, and cross from the bye-line. Yet we tried none of that, we just passed it about pointless in front of them, then floated balls for them to head into outer fucking space.
I think Tim is arrogant. And that arrogance translates to an approach that says "We're not going to worry about what the opposition do, we're going to play our own game and show them we're better than them". Which sounds good, if you're in a Richard Curtis movie about a downtrodden pub team managed by Rowan Atkinson with Keira Knightley as the star striker, who end up winning the FA Cup with a last minute goal from the work experience lad with a stammer and a wooden leg.
In real life, it's shit.
