It's that time again

With the new football season upon us, Hunter Davies stares into his tea leaves

So what do you think of it so far? The new season, of course. Not much shape, not much sense, not much excitement. It's early doors, but there are some pointers.

Post World Cup blues: Most of those who played still look knackered, lumpen, leaden, much as they did in Germany. Ditto the crowds, suffering from post WC dumps and depressions. Those huge gaps in the stands were worrying at Blackburn last Sunday against, now who was it, some lowly club probably, with no stars worth turning up to gape at.

Chelsea: That's who it was. The only cheerful note so far has been their rubbish performances. All sensible footer fans who for decades hated Man United for no real reason will have their fingers crossed that "Chelski" will come a cropper this season. They look like 15 superstars in search of a team to play for. What's gone wrong?

José Mourinho, of course. He should never have had his hair cut. We just never realised that, under that lush black hair, he is grey - and thinning. He's now totally diminished. It's the Samson effect. Rio Ferdinand: Has done much the same. We now see he has a pin head. At least his old wig is in good hands, or at least on a good head. Wes Brown is now wearing it.

Olof Mellberg of Villa: Great beard. Do keep it on. No one has done so, I think, for a whole Prem season. Letters, please.

Andy Johnson of Everton: Looking sharp. Could that be with not going to the World Cup?

Andy Whing of Coventry: I just wanted to write down his name. Never heard of a Whing before.

Well done, Teddy: Sheringham has now done it, playing in the Premiership at 40. I wonder if the bookies take bets on which 20-year-olds now playing in the Prem will be there at 40? None of them, I'd guess.

Well done, Sheff United fans: Loved their singing against Liverpool. "We're going to win the league." The league at that moment was only 45 minutes old, theirs was the first game, which had started early, and they were one-up. Hope springs, eh.

Welcome to wired-up refs: Not done them much good so far, but they look ever so modern and techie, except for those with bits of dirty Elastoplast holding their ears in place.

And welcome to the three new Prem managers: I've been studying their physogs carefully, knowing I'll be living with their wisdoms all season, perhaps longer, if they're lucky.

Adrian Boothroyd of Watford: I fear for him. A maniac little John Reid clone, spouts ever so sincere, authoritative, fluent rubbish. He could explode, come May.

Steve Coppell of Reading: What has happened to his voice? Back in his Man United playing days, he talked normal. Now his voice is so deep he could do voiceover for the Gruffalo.

Neil Warnock of Sheffield United: I do hope he stays up. He makes me smile as he blusters away, working himself into a rage, then sort of collapsing, as if realising how ridiculous football is, which of course is spot on.

Steve McLaren: The new Lord of the same Old Rings. His new teeth look fab, but he has to work on his tie. It doesn't fit his collar. "There's no easy games," he'll say before he takes on the might of Andorra, population 15 and one goat, or is that Angora, consoling himself that, unlike Scotland, he hasn't got to meet a real European superpower, such as the Faroe Isles, population 23 and one seal. Now they're scary . . .

Hunter Davies's memoirs "The Beatles, Football and Me" are published this week by Headline, £17.99