Poor old Roy Hodgson, why did he take on Crystal Palace? He was having lunch at a Côte in a salubrious suburb of south-west London the other day, indistinguishable in his blazer and slacks from all the other old boys there enjoying a leisurely retirement and looking forward to a postprandial nap. Roy is a charming man, and one of a vanishing number of football managers to have hinted at a non-footballing cultural hinterland, entirely suited to a life of leisure.
Yet now he is willingly going once more unto the god-awful breach that is Premier League management. Imagine: wet afternoons at Selhurst Park trying to lift a struggling team out of the mire, surrounded by disgruntled south Londoners who already want you out, rather than a sun-dappled square near the villa in Portugal, enjoying a succulent pastel de nata and a few chapters of the latest Sebastian Faulks in the company of a chilled rosé poured by the effervescent Mrs H.
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