I've been away for three weeks, having my summer hols in the West Indies, but, trying to pick up the pieces again, it seems like I've been away for three years. They cut to a shot of the Southampton manager and I thought goodness, what has David Jones been doing, he's beginning to look like whatsisname, you know, that bloke who used to manage England, ex-Spurs player, what was he called, the born again howsyourfather, often wondered what had happened to him - when blow me, I realised that it was him.

Then I noticed the muppet beside him, the dogged and dutiful John Gorman, stuck in aspic at Glenn Hoddle's right hand, and I thought I'd returned into a time warp, life was going backwards, I was seeing scenes I'd already seen at Swindon, Chelsea and Ingerland. It made sense once I'd got it clear. The Blessed Glenn has become Southampton's new manager. I then saw reference to Cantona coming to manage Fulham. Couldn't believe that. Some mistake surely. Must be one of Max Clifford's little creations, which aren't meant to make sense but fill up column inches on a quiet day. Look out for Cantona running off with Posh Spice or Ginola setting up house with Chris Evans.

Some changes in the past three weeks have been easier to take in - minor stuff, but the sort that you have to go away in order to spot. You don't notice them when you are watching all the time. Such as Didier Deschamps turning grey or Christian Daley trying to grow a funny beard.

Martin O'Neill is still wearing the same scruffy rugby top as he prowls the touchline, but John Gregory has gone posh and upmarket. I thought it was Ken Bates at first, sitting in the stand in his swanky, moneybags overcoat. Before I went away, Gregory had been relegated to the stands for misconduct and presumably decided to dress the part. Now he's decided to stay in the stand - it could start a whole new trend for managers.

I always thought that George Graham was sensible to spend at least the first half in the stand. In the dugout you can see so little, only half the game, because your view of the far side is concertinaed and all perspective goes. But Gregory has also realised that a manager can put off his players by standing so close and bellowing at them.

I remember when I used to sit in the dugout at Spurs, alongside the manager and coaches, watching the delight on the face of the winger when it was half-time, knowing that he would be on the other side of the pitch for the second half, out of earshot of the effings and blindings. Wingers have mostly gone; now it's the wing backs who get an earful from the dugout.

I came back from my holiday in time to see replays of Benito Carbone's hat-trick for Aston Villa and a close-up of his body as he stripped off his vest in celebration. The whole of his arm and shoulder seems to be one massive tattoo. How can such a little body support all that ink and dye? Couldn't quite make out any words or the design. Something to look out for from now on.

Before I went away, Man Utd were still in Brazil, faffing around, giving goals away, playing like prats. Throughout our hols, I tried ever so hard to find out what had happened in their last match. It was OK keeping up with English news at Cobblers Grove in Barbados, because it is little England, but in hotels elsewhere, such as the Cotton House in Mustique, Isle de France in St Barts and Jumby Bay in Antigua, all they give you at breakfast are faxed digests from the New York Times, the most boring newspaper in the English-speaking world.

I groaned and screamed every morning at their stupid reports of American teams and games I'd never heard of. World News was confined to one column, and about the only English story that made it in three weeks was about those women's institute housewives who produced a calendar of themselves naked - a story that must be almost a year old.

When I returned last week, I heard Alex Ferguson on the radio say in passing that Man Utd had been the best team in Brazil. Could that be true? I asked my dear son, the barrister. Total bollocks, he said. They were crap. Succinctly put, don't you think, your honour?

One thing totally confused me. I was watching Leeds v Villa on the television and I clearly heard the Villa fans shouting: "You're going down." Funny, I thought, singing that chant so early in the season, and when Leeds are doing so well. Then I realised that it was being directed not at the Leeds team but at one of their players - Lee Bowyer. Weird. What I'd missed is that Bowyer, along with some others, has been involved in an incident off the pitch and could be up in court - which all the Villas knew about and therefore were taunting him.

Football, you see, has a narrative. From game to game, and inside every game, there are characters who come and go, sub-plots that simmer away, incidents that refer back to other incidents, strands and themes that appear to be going nowhere then suddenly erupt. You have to concentrate to keep up to date, to catch all the nuances. I've given myself a headache all week trying to get back up to scratch. So much so that I decided not to watch Sky's Thursday game and went out to the cinema to see American Beauty. Amazing for someone's first film as a director. My wife thought it was too slick: all style and no content. I enjoyed it. As I watched the credits at the end, I read that the screenplay was by Alan Ball.

Blow me. While I've been away, Glenda has come back from the dead and Bally has been and gone to Hollywood . . .

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