The money-go-round has once again ignited, with the conspicuous clown cabal kick-starting their collapsible careers and staking their grossly unqualified claims to the raft of imminent Premier League vacancies.

My prediction for next season? Expect nothing and still be disappointed.

It’s a murky old stew of the weirdest fish.

I don’t even know where to start with Liam Rosenior, who has all the charisma of a lobotomised John Major with a penchant for librium and valium colonic irrigation  – and the commensurate coherence – but admittedly the current crown prince clown is savvy enough to have bagged a six-and-a-half year on the shimmering, lukewarm waves of a talent vacuum.

Now Chelsea are going to Hull and back,

I blame the hype of the women’s game. It’s an abject embarrassment that has seemingly engendered a national Stockholm syndrome, even though most matches exemplify the coordination accomplishments of a slow motion, dyspraxic, blind man’s bluff.

It’s as if club owners have seen that lezball can be so bumbling and comic but still be lauded that busting a gut or the bank for meritorious glory isn’t worth a squirt.

Shoehorning X Factor substance shoe-horned into an ostensibly professional skin is now the order of the day. The merchandise readies will still of course keep rolling in, so what else matters?

Fish stew, love?

Premier League coaches just have to pull on the Pep garb, parrot the Uefa B-Badge press conference word salad, and hope the players can trounce enough of the other dross to deliver mid-table.

How else do you explain Frank, Iraola, Farke, Hurlezer, Pereira, Silva, Le Bris, Parker, Edwards, Nuno, De Zerbi, and Glasner? They’re all at best a bus ride away from attaining even sub-poop status.

Glasner has at least overseen a team to silverware, but that was arguably an Ange job – a strongish squad and a competent coaching staff that all masked a fish rotting at the head, mate.

Southgate milked that one for years, as Carrick will now attest at United, having had the benefit of Steve Holland pulling the strings 

In the headless chick game, the fish of course rots in a different direction and sadly its essence is now all over the game itself.

It all stinks.