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David Moyes’ craggy features formed a haunted expression; he had the look of a man confused and alarmed by the situation in which he found himself, as if coming to terms with others ultimately deciding his fate.

A weak thin-lipped smile did its best to display a level of composure but it looked jarringly incongruous upon his ashen face that screamed fear, bewilderment and desperation. He certainly didn’t look like a man being presented to the world’s press as the new manager of Manchester United Football Club.

Looking back he had every right to look so astonishingly petrified that he could barely locate his mouse mat. He inherited a horribly lopsided squad with a chasm where the midfield should be; he was absolutely nobody’s first choice to replace the greatest manager ever (apart from the greatest manager ever) and therefore had everything to prove; he was welcomed by a novice chief exec who struggled to negotiate a Twix from its wrapper and stretched out every transfer saga to the point of it snapping in his face; and he had to contend with a very unhappy Wayne Rooney.

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All that said there is no way of excusing the fact that he’s not been very good. In fact he’s been exceedingly bad. There have been things to cling onto like a satisfactory domestic away record, the blooming of a truly world-class goalkeeper, and the odd flash of attacking verve from the likes of Januzaj, Kagawa and Mata that was intermittently delicious.

Sadly, such morsels were more akin to roses growing from concrete than anything significant or real. Moyes has broken more records than Roy Castle on speed (in a bad way) and all in the most ponderous, predictable way possible.

He has never really looked like the manager of Manchester United and that has possibly accounted for his downfall more than anything. Always uneasy, always afraid, he has displayed the nervous demeanour of a mafia rat forever looking over his shoulder for fear his cover will be blown.

Old Trafford needed a Michael Corleone when the Godfather retired; even a Sonny or a Tom Hagen would have done. Instead they got a man all too ready to cast himself as Fredo.

It has been horrible to witness a man collapse into himself so publicly, especially for those of us who had desperately hoped and wished for him to succeed even when hoping and wishing was all that was left. This isn’t even the David Moyes who managed Everton. He at least was uncompromising, unapologetic and astute. This Moyes is none of those things. His team aren’t even organised, tenacious or stubborn in the way that some reds had feared it would be; instead they’re just a bit crap.

Who's next? Click here for the top contenders to replace Moyes

Moyes looks ghostly and increasingly fragile, and as much as modern-day footballers are bratty, self-serving and treacherous, that’s just the nature of the millionaire beast. What’s more they smell fear.

If Fergie was the fierce, old-fashioned headmaster who got remarkable results through strict tutelage, Moyes is the nervous supply teacher that the talented but unruly pupils have no reason to respect or fear. Not only has Moyes failed to win their reverence, it’s like he’s somehow managed to chalk a rude drawing on his own back.

Those anxiously agog eyes now stare into the precipice and rather predictably there is no rush of hands to reach out and save him. Even we few loyalists appreciate the gig is probably up; the end is nigh and it will come as something of a relief to everyone. The one vaguely positive emotion that remained was sympathy, for a good man who was trying his very best.

But in the end it’s perhaps kinder to end an honest soul’s torment than to prolong it any further.