Allardyce exit shows that English football is really rubbish

That it should come to this. Football in England, which, face it, hasn’t scaled the heights since the days of Bobby Charlton’s comb-over, has this week slumped lower than a snake’s belly.

Sam Allardyce – “Big Sam” – was never a good choice to be manager of the England side, but he was probably the best available. On the debit side of the argument, he was no more than a competent club manager – unimaginative, favouring brawn over brain, a specialist in the long ball. To his credit, he was English, unlike just about every other leading figure in the Premier League. The real problem, as it turned out, was that he was greedier than a divorce court lawyer, and unpleasant with it. But, hey, you can’t have everything, or, in his case, anything.

Now, apparently, Harry Redknapp – ‘Arry –  the undisputed doyen of the mid-table, has thrown his wallet … I mean his hat, into the ring. If he gets the job, someone else will have to read his contract for him, because, according to testimony he gave during one of his several court appearances, he never fully mastered his Janet and John. But they’ll not have to count his wages, since adding up is definitely a strong point.

But surely, I hear you cry, there has to be a decent English manager somewhere who could take over the national side and get England into the World Cup finals in 2018 – at which point, led by the portly figure of Wayne Rooney, we could make our usual block-booking for an early bath.

Sadly, there isn’t. Only five of the current crop of Premier League managers is English, and none of them, as it stands, is in charge of a top six club. Alan Pardew, head coach at Crystal Palace, is best placed, at seventh. Of the five, two – Eddie Howe at Bournemouth and Sean Dyche at Burnley – ply their hair-dryers at newly promoted sides.

We may be leaving the European Union, but in the world of association football, Brexit means nothing … rien, nichts, nada, niente. Most of the owners of our clubs, top and bottom, are foreign; most of our managers and coaches are foreign; most of our players are foreign. The only English thing about the English game, apart from the referees, is the location of the grounds, and even these are increasingly annexes to the virtual stadium provided by Sky Sports for the benefit of fans in China, America, Africa and the Middle East.

English footballers are about as glamorous these days as a Domino’s Pizza. There’s Harry Kane of Tottenham and Jamie Vardy of Leicester, neither of whom is in the same league, literally, as Ronaldo, Messi and Suarez. After that, pfff. Maybe Adam Lallana or the perennially unfit Daniel Sturridge, both of LIverpool, or, just possibly, on a good day, Manchester City’s Raheem Sterling.

On the management front, the onetime conveyor belt of inspired Scottish curmudgeons juddered to a halt the day after it delivered Sir Alex Ferguson. English bosses, meanwhile. don’t get a look-in. Owners, who are mainly Russian, Middle-Eastern or American, want “quality,” which means big names from the Spanish, Italian, and German leagues, with the occasional Dutchman or Slav to make up the numbers. When English managers are fired, they are routinely replaced by foreigners in quest either of redemption or a massive pay cheque, who somehow, in spite of their constipated command of the language, exude a whiff of Continental savoir faire.

Twenty years ago, when all of this was still new, “England” ruled the roost – not in international terms of course (we were rubbish even then), but in respect of European club football. Then Europe caught up. After that, they left us standing. Today, our teams of babel are playing catch-up again.

Is it possible that Eddie Howe and Sean Dyche will break through into the magic circle and actually take charge of a top six club? I hope so, but I doubt it. Even in the Championship, the old Second Division, overseas coaches are making inroads.

It’s our own fault. Years ago, we decided to consign ourselves to oblivion and we ought not to complain. The fans – many of whom voted for Brexit – loved it when foreign owners recruited foreign managers and foreign players. While the new order may have killed the pride that existed around such muddy cathedrals as Old Trafford, Anfield, Highbury and Upton Park, the victory that came in pride’s wake at least provided the fans with much-needed bragging rights.

Now they don’t even have that, and, post-Allardyce, the nation that gave the world the “beautiful game” is hanging its head in disgrace.

So maybe it’ll have to be ‘Arry’s Game after all.