Remember the Eddie Howe of a decade ago? Remember how pleasant he seemed, with his ruddy cheeks and blond hair, how he looked less like a football manager than a minor character from Downton Abbey? Remember the compelling interviews, the articulacy and understated charisma that seemed to emphasise his fundamental niceness?
And the poor love hated leaving Bournemouth. As a player, two games at Portsmouth were quite enough and he was soon back to his spiritual home. As a manager, well, Burnley, with its wild moors and dark energy, never seemed a natural fit. Best to stay amid the familiar beaches and boarding houses of Bournemouth, where Pep Guardiola could praise the quality of his football (which is to say the ease with which Manchester City could beat them) and nobody was too bothered by them conceding an average 66 goals per season – it was after all, a miracle they were in the Premier League at all. Bless him, good old Eddie, with his pretty, unthreatening football and his inability to organise a defence.
