Boa est mort, vive la morte!

Oh dear God, Boa is no more! The great pretender has packed his bags and trumpety trump said goodbye to the Claret & Blue circus. A year too early according to his contract, or 4 years too late according to his ability and performances. The man who was destined to have a section of the ground named after him according to West Ham aficionado (and son of a National Lottery winner) Old Skool Pete has departed the Upton Park stage for ever and a day, his place in immortality left unsecured, and, in the words of Eliot "Remaining a perpetual possibility, only in a world of speculation."

So, we will never once have the chance to sit on the Luis Boa-Morte crapper or pee in the Luis Boa-Morte latrine. The £6 million man arrived, in the words of Turds, as "three players rolled into one" but was exposed as a jack of all trades and - never mind a master - not even an apprentice of none!

He came, he saw, he floundered. Everytime he had a shot at goal, some poor sod in the Bobby Moore upper was rushed to hospital with concussion. Every tackle he made had free kick written all over it. Every pass he completed was to an opponent. Every run off the ball was an open invitation for a linesman's flag. Yes he charged around, yes he gave 100% but yes he was crap - time and time and time again.

Will we miss Boa? Of course we will, in the same way that Lear missed his all licensed fool. The guy was a running joke - literally - and he ran, and ran, and ran.

But now he is gone.

"Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the tautology Morte Is Dead"