And all this is happening while that malodorous, belligerent, hate-filled octogenarian watches on. Words and phrases like "Small club mentality,"Not in my lifetime" and "Noisy neighbours" swirling through the remains of his drink-ravaged brain. Unable to comprehend the fact that the club that he and his colleagues routinely sneered at, made derogatory comments about and openly dismissed as 'small time,' are now amongst the elite: the cream of the cream, a side playing an attractive, attacking style of football unprecedented in British sport.
The dethroned despot now sits in the semi-abandoned, derelict ground that was once his kingdom. His purple-veined face and bloodshot eyes, visual evidence of decades-long chronic alcohol abuse. Like the ghost of Saddam Hussein returning to the war-torn streets of an Iraq destroyed beyond all recognition by the bombs and the bullets of its many enemies.
The fallen dictator of the swamp now has nowhere to turn, no old friends to reminisce with, no 'jolly old pals' to embrace and laugh with about old times. They are all gone, either dead or infirm. He has nothing left to live for so he now spends his last lonely hours on earth, feebly watching from afar as that very same club that he once so vigorously mocked has now turned the throttle up and roared off into the distance, leaving a frail and bewildered old man in its dust.
Meanwhile, in the rest of country, thousands upon thousands of decent, respectable folk will be stocking up on supplies of jelly and ice-cream in order to feast with much merriment the final days of one of the most disliked football managers who ever blighted the English league.