But just look at what we have got. A new manager coming into the job with no goodwill at all. If he doesn't start getting wins instantly, he'll completely lose any support he has. He won't get any leeway, or any time to settle into the job.
In fact he got 60 minutes. The usual limp attacking display had been provoking chants for Tony Watt to come on (which Watt himself did nothing to discourage), but the withdrawal of Vetokele (who Watt replaced) when Watt came on gave some sign of how Watt was going to be used, why Watt wasn't already on, and where Watt would be playing.
Watt's body language was encouraging: he obviously wants to play and thinks he can make a difference. He didn't, but that's probably not his fault. Because once again we had a collection of individuals on the pitch, not a team. Some of them, the ones you'd expect it from, were playing for personal pride: stranded in this shambles they want to maintain their dignity. Others, you know who I mean, couldn't be arsed.
So the result, another sodding draw spitting itself out of the jaws of victory, was almost irrelevant.
While I was drowsing through this terrible game, my mind on Penelope Cruz and the question of whether Inma Cuesta, star of Spanish TV's Aguila Roja, is a suitable replacement for her in my increasingly worrying fantasy life, others were watching Guy Luzon's touchline performance. Lots of impassioned if slightly batty gestures, it seems, but no-one in the team paying any attention to them or him. How can they possibly have any respect for him? Those who know him hate him. Those who don't know him know that he got the job purely through a kind of notional nepotism. He's like the idiot son Roland Duchatelet never had.
Sorry, that's a terrible thing to say. For all I know, Roland has lots of idiot sons scattered all over Europe like abandoned VW tourers full of grey, antipodean underwear.
And yes, actually, she is.
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