There is more chance of me winning the lottery and ****ging Lucy Pinder on the way to pick up my winnings, pausing only to find the keys to a shiny new Aston Martin under my doormat alongside more keys made of gold to a new house bequeathed to me by an auntie I never knew I had but who had recommended to Angelina Jolie that she should get rid of Brad and go with me, than there is of Alan Pardew going to West Ham. In my opinion.