During a rusty recovery run this morning, under cold blue skies and into a chilling south westerly wind that's gathering pace by the day, I had time to consider some cold, hard facts.
Last week we (that is, all right-thinking chaps with an interest in football and ninety-eight percent of the heterosexual female population) mourned the loss from the public spotlight of The Special One. The latest news emanating from the damp dark shadows of White Hart Lane suggests that, yes, anyone will do just so long as they can offload Tony Soprano. I like Martin Jol. He looks like he could wrestle grizzly bears with his gnarled, bare-knuckle boxer's hands, has the mean bulldog jaw and overhanging, furrowed brow of a bullet-toothed killer - or is it Spike from Tom & Jerry? - yet frequently displays wit, charm and intellect under seemingly intollerable pressure and ribald speculation.
Yesterday Radio 5Live's breakfast wags asked listeners to suggest what Chelski would be without Mourinho. They offered examples such as Peaches without cream, Morcombe without Wise but, as usual, it was the ironic, slightly bitter wit of a true football fan that stole the plaudits. Chelsea without Mourinho, he pondered, would be like . . . Spurs.
If Stan Collimore, a man who seems to have discovered kudos amongst football pundits a bit like Archimedes sussing out displacement by slipping in the bath, is right, Jol's departure is a matter of when, not if. It'll be another nail in the coffin of colourful post-match interviews. Old Puce Face only gives them to a favoured few (and those I've seen have been horribly balanced and reflective of late) and Ian Holloway just doesn't get the airtime he richly deserves.
There is one section of the global media rubbing their hands at the talent appearing on the market; Hollywood. To be more precise, the Broccoli family and their ilk. Surely you can picture the scene? The Portugeezer sat in an impossibly high-backed armchair, gloved hands stroking an evil-looking cat. The mighty bulk of the simmering Dutchman looming from the shadows, piano wire stretched between those great ham fists. There'll be no shortage of villains for Daniel Craig to pursue.
I chugged home in a creditable 44:17, the homeward leg aided by a firm shove in the back from the sou'wester, sun strong on my face. Not too many running opportunities on the horizon, so hopefully these miles will stand me in good stead for a bit.