Choose Sunderland’s next manager: at least one O’Neill in the frame

Jake: ‘you don’t talk to the likes of us, Ellis, so how can we be blamed if we get something wrong?’

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

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