So, England’s first German manager has entered the fickle foray of footie, kicking off with a hefty slice of withering criticism for his predecessor and a 2-0 win over Albania.

Guys, you’d only lose to Albania at pickpocketing, trafficking, or blood feuds.

It’s probably true that Southgate’s weightiest clanger in the last tournament was his blind loyalty to an on-field leader, who was at the time turgidly traversing the turf like Captain Tom.

Perhaps the dead weight in question, Harry Kane, should have opted for hari-kari in order to give The Three Lions a decisive shove from paint-drying boredom to an elevated dullness of dishwater designation, and heaven forfend, actually win something?

Not a chance when there were hardon-inducing group-stage tap-ins and spurious VAR spot kicks to hoover up. Captain Fan-spastic wants his 100 goals, and he’ll get his 100 goals. Nothing is going to stop that, bar his fading capabilities.

His best touch of season was to dump on Southgate in the aftermath. We should be grateful for small mercies.

Anyway, back to the future – because, chaps, this is what the future holds – and the dynamic duo of misshapen faces creakingly combined to mastermind an underwhelming 2-0, dispatching hordes of incandescent Albanian pimps back to their jizz-stained urban outposts to slice up scabby teen hostesses in enraged acts of proxy retribution.

It certainly lived up to expectations, though, as I was bored titless after 20 minutes, with the highpoint being a crisp canter to the downstairs toilet for a leak. And no, I didn’t pause the game.

This urinating sojourn did however afford a brief moment of reflection on the new guy who was likewise already taking the piss.

Prior to landing the FA wonga windfall, ‘Super Tommy’ had meticulously and strategically propelled Bayern Munich to third place in the Bundesliga after previous incumbents had delivered eleven titles on the bounce.

That takes some doing, even for a clown.

In the aftermath, Bayern’s honorary president and legendary permanent fixture, Uli Hoeness, was scathing about the Tuchel tenure having been a ‘catastrophe’ for the club.

In fairness, though, ‘Heinous’ should have piped the heck down. His own three-and-a-half-year jail term for tax evasion was arguably more deleterious and set the Wurst example of all, if you know what I mean, Harry?

Harry probably doesn’t, as he surely opted for Quantum Physics over German when he took his options.

The final word on the impending England debacle nestles however in the circumstantial clusterfudge of the new coach’s credentials.

Drum roll, please.

His first managerial appointment was bestowed upon him by none other than Ralf Rangnick. Yep, the arch-cockwomble, who made Manchester United even more hapless than Ole’s ministrations had achieved before him. He’d previously managed a team named after an energy drink and turned out to be the continuity candidate.

Presumably, Red Bull gives you wingbacks – probably ones that can’t defend.

He’s since been lauded as a baller guru for having proclaimed that the club required ‘open-heart surgery, and that their troubles could not be solved through ‘minor changes’.

My nonagenarian mum said something similar, but she never realistically thought she was in with a shout for the technical director gig at Old Trafford.

At least, I wouldn’t have thought so, but you never know with the Glazers and INEOS.

Ultimately, Ralfie couldn’t quite grasp that getting high on your own supply doesn’t deliver the real-life psychedelia of your far-out trips. You might soon start to see Super Tommy T treading the same path.

Someone must have sprinkled shrooms into the communal hookah at Lancaster Gate, because this appointment suggests that the board took soundings from from the girl with kaleidoscope eyes.

I’m lamentably old enough to remember the halcyon days of the commentariat twisting the overwank dial to 11 in response to El Tel’s ‘Christmas Tree’ mumbo-jumbo. Now it’s a new generation of gilet-sporting, skinny-tracksuited snake oil peddlers, bloviating to delirium on fluid formations, pressing, and false nines.

The only pressing we’ll be contemplating is the speed dial to the Dignitas Clinic.

Another day, another tuck-up.

And for the fans, sweet FA.