Sam Allardyce had made sure he looked the part. On the day he was presented as manager of England’s national team in July, Allardyce, 61, wore a Three Lions lapel badge, a shirt with his initials monogrammed on the cuffs, and the broadest of grins. This, he said, was his “dream job.”

The country might have still been reeling from the national team’s elimination from the European Championships at the hands of Iceland the previous month, — a humiliation rated, in the face of ferocious competition, as England’s worst ever — but Allardyce was a picture of swagger and hope, shrugging off any hint of doubt or gloom.

Was he daunted by the job? “I think I fit the chair,” he replied.

What about the widespread idea that it was a uniquely unforgiving role, in which failure was almost certain? “Whatever pitfalls there might be, I’m looking forward to it,” he said.

What of the inglorious fates of all his predecessors? “It is not a poisoned chalice, not for me,” he said. “I’m tough enough to take it.”