Perhaps the most striking aspect of Ruben Amorim’s time at Manchester United is the physical effect of the job, the altered optics. Amorim turned up at Old Trafford looking like a handsome pirate: the jawline, the seigneurial smile, the elite Euro-cardigan styling, the sense that here is someone who smells at all times of high-spec automobile upholstery.
Seven weeks in he has the air of a doomed royal hostage, shuttled joylessly from corridor to touchline by unseen handlers. The smile has fractured, the shoulders have drooped. Most recently United’s head coach has developed a habit of dropping down on to his haunches mid-match and staring deep into the Old Trafford turf, as though searching for a) a contact lens; and b) the remaining fragments of his own shredded and tender soul.
