The way managers are getting treated this season makes me think of the slippery ironed forehead of Prime Minister as he repeatedly calls us to face reality.
In these times of austerity tough decisions need to made. And as we've learnt from the great puffed-up ponce, it's only the wealthy and financially secure folk who have the ability to make these decisions. I mean who better to tell you that you're going to have to lose benefits than a man who is heir to a wallpaper and fabrics empire?
And you know what, the best man to tell you how best to improve your bog-standard comprehensive school is the kind of posh grown-up schoolboy who would've ended up head-first in the nearest bin had he set foot in ours. (Michael Gove. Look him up if you've never heard of him and tell me if just one glimpse of that puckered arse of a face doesn't get your reaching for the nearest sledgehammer.)
And surely we must all admit that the man most qualified to tell Brian McDermott that his number's up is the son of a 'Russian multi-billionaire' (or, as the rest of the world would put it 'successful arch criminal')
Yes Anton Zingarevich becomes owner on January 21, when there are still ten full days of transfer window available. He gives his backing to a coach who earns himself the title of manager of the month. Then he sacks him a handful of games later.
McDermott, remember, took over when Reading were stuttering away at the foot of the Championship. He took them to the play-offs and then to automatic promotion the following season. This is a man who runs a club on possibly the smallest budget in the division. In the real world, he would be considered something of a success. In the harsh new world where we are all cold, naked and at the whim of a plutocrat in a leather armchair, he's a dud.
Has little Anton got someone in mind to replace the Bunsen Honeydew looky-likey at the Madekjski? Naaahhh! Course not. These sons of billionaires don't seem to have the first idea how to do things sensibly. I have visions of Anton in his playroom, throwing a few subbuteo players around and bawling "Me want new manager! Me want it NOW!"
Then he pulls out a Pannini sticker book from fifteen years ago and starts pointing at pictures until he finally lands on one who might be a manager.
I don't suppose Antone's studied comparable cases from last year, such as Wolverhampton Wanderers. There, a chippy successful businessman, Steve Morgan, took over the club and behaved like he'd never a run a paper-round before. He sacked Mick McCarthy, who had been doing pretty well on limited resources. Morgan then found he had no replacement and so turned to McCarthy's assistant Keith Connor, who watched from the touchline with all the assuredness of a labrador peering out from the back of a dogcatcher's van.
Connor was sacked and replaced by Solbakken, and the club has never looked forward since.
The ridiculous thing about McDermott's sacking - and I hope he's having a lunchtime ale with Nigel Adkins where they can discuss the perils of success and over-achievement - is that Reading were a team devoid of stars. Their only strength was their team ethic. That team ethic was built by McDermott over two or three years.
Whoever comes in is not going to be able to scatter a handful of stardust over Jimmy Kebe and Hal Robson-Kanu and transform them into the Messi and Ronaldo of Berkshire.
I mean am I insane or was it not that long ago that a desperate Newcastle United turned to a club legend to save them for the last nine games of the season? And far from proving a lifeline, Alan Shearer grabbed on to the nearest piece of concrete and went down with them.
The new breed of owners honestly seem to think that their sheer wealth will mean that any decision they make will be a good one. Perhaps they look at Abramovich and think 'well that smirking asssassin of an owner goes through coaches like a virus goes through the Queen's alimentary canal and he still manages to win quite a lot of things. Yes I shall run my club like I have lost touch with any humanity I once had.'
The Roman Empire currently boasts El Porquo as the temporary Maitre D. Here's a bloke who's got used to the rough and tumble of modern managerial and simply lines his piggy pockets and he trots from one abject failure to another. It seems strange then to be complimenting him on the way Chelsea played at Old Trafford on Sunday.
Wiser heads might tell you that had Eden Hazard on the pitch from the start, there might not have been so much to worry about. Chelsea have always looked a better squad on paper than United (that's if you allow for the fact that Chelsea only have one striker). On Sunday they were far superior for the last hour.
They were better with Lampard off the pitch. David Luiz looked a very sound defender and the identikit trio of Mata, Oscar and Hazard buzzed around United's defenders like flies around sleepy cattle.
United on the other hand were very poor, gifting back possession like a Dad with his five-year-old son in the back garden. It is a mystery how they have gained such a stranglehold on the Premier League this season. Van Persie has made a huge difference but Fergie's midfield still looks way short of top class and without Scholes to plod on to give it a bit of solidity the likes of Cleverley and Carrick get too easily overrun.
The Cup draw left you with that sinking feeling that the best game left in the tournament will be a semi-final and the final will be tediously one-sided. Personally I hope that Wigan can win it. It would be great reward for the club, the very good manager and in particular a chairman who has remained loyal and true to that manager.
It would also be a reminder that a bit of integrity and a bit of long-term thinking can reap its reward.