Kop Flop. Lost Soul. Poor Little Rich Boy. The throwaway lines are no less hurtful for their familiarity. But does the shorthand of decline scour the soul when you are earning £90,000 a week, under largely false pretences?

Ask Joe Cole. At 29, these should be the good years. He has 56 England caps. Medals from three Premier League titles and three FA Cup wins, are the legacy of seven largely successful seasons at Chelsea.

So much for living the dream.

He’s as surplus to Liverpool’s requirements as last season’s away kit. The money is guaranteed, even if it will not buy the love of fans whose loyalty must be earned. The former boy wonder faces a character-defining choice: pride or pound notes?

This time last year, he held court in the mixed zone in Bloemfontein, after England’s elimination from the World Cup. He’s an obliging interviewee, though you wouldn’t want to stake your life on him passing an applied mathematics A Level on your behalf.

The air was full of grand statements about a new start. Like all footballers, he put a positive personal spin on collective failure. Subsequent events made Carlo Ancelotti’s hard call, to let him leave Stamford Bridge on a free, look easy.

Cole’s Liverpool career has been an unremitting disaster. He has become emblematic of Roy Hodgson’s misfortune to be the wrong manager at the wrong club at the wrong time. Should he decide to stay at Anfield, he will shiver on the margins under Kenny Dalglish.

The signs of stagnation are ominous. Injuries have slowed him down, robbed him of his poise on the ball. His confidence is shot. He needs someone like Harry Redknapp to throw a comforting paw around his shoulders and remind him of his natural talent.

There is an alternative solution: Cole can take the financial hit, and find a club like Fulham prepared to build a team around him. That means accepting a wage cut, in a recession. Good enough for the rest of us, but not good enough for you, Joe?

Say it ain’t so.

It’s an image that defines our age. Two security guards, whose best days are definitely behind them, hold up a child’s blanket to try and prevent photographers capturing David De Gea’s arrival for his Manchester United medical.

They fail, of course. The young Spanish goalkeeper is too quick for the hapless pair, who shield nothing more than a patch of wall. It’s absurd, embarrassing, and symptomatic of the hysteria generated in the dog days of the transfer window.

That nonsense apart, United are conducting their business with trademark efficiency. It’s a time of transition. £50million has been spent on signing De Gea, Ashley Young and Phil Jones from Atlético Madrid, Aston Villa and Blackburn Rovers respectively.

Legends like Gary Neville and Paul Scholes have been let go, with due deference. Fringe players, led by Darron Gibson, Wes Brown and John O’Shea, are on the market. While others ponder their options, Sir Alex Ferguson is attacking the task of shaping a new team.

United’s remaining requirements – a central midfield playmaker and a left back to pressurise Patrice Evra – are easy to define. Judgements of character are less straightforward.

Despite his youth, Jones is a natural leader. I suspect he will be making life very uncomfortable for Rio Ferdinand this autumn. Ferguson loves those who match the ferocity of his ambition.

De Gea has great character references. The jury is out on Young, who must respond to the magnitude of his opportunity. Ironically, Ferguson’s biggest problem involves the player he instinctively admires above all.

Ryan Giggs will report back for United’s pre-season training on Monday with his private life providing material for public bar comedians. The focus on him will be cruel and unrelenting. There will be times, at 37, when retirement will seem an easy option.

Sir Alex will provide a human shield. He knows him so well he will be able to detect how badly controversy has corroded his confidence and commitment. Football will either be Giggs’ refuge, or his prison.

Sid the Sexist is alive and well, and watching Russian League football to combat the cold turkey of the three-day break between domestic seasons. He won’t accept the methadone substitute, the Women’s World Cup, at any price.

According to people like him, it’s the thin end of the wedge. Next thing you know, we’ll have Beyoncé, and scampi-and-chips-in-a-basket schmaltz, at Glastonbury. That really would be Armageddon.

Well, the world is changing. Sisters are doing it for themselves. A capacity crowd, in excess of 74,000, watched hosts Germany launch the tournament yesterday, with a 2-1 win over Canada in Berlin. England begin their group matches today, against Mexico.

Things are different. Women’s football is slower, less attritional physically. The lower tempo places a premium on tactical and technical excellence. Unlike the men, England actually have a chance to get beyond the quarter finals.

Manager Hope Powell won 66 England caps in an era in which players paid subs, bought their own kit, and slept on gym floors at training camps. There were only 10,000 registered women footballers in the UK.

Now around 160,000 women compete regularly. Football is the country’s largest female participation sport. But are we serious about the women’s game, or merely paying politically correct lip service to the idea?

Katie Chapman is one of Powell’s most seasoned players. Arsenal captain, she has 82 England caps. However, she is unable to play in Germany because she cannot afford childcare for her sons, Harvey and Riley.

Sixteen of Powell’s squad combine part-time jobs with playing in England’s recently formed Women’s Super League. The other five live in the United States, where they play in the Women’s Professional League.

They have a once-in-a-generation chance to promote themselves, and their cause. I wish them well, even if the likes of Sid do have a point about Beyoncé.

It’s the Sir Bobby Robson weekend on the BBC, which will make a change from Auntie panting over assorted underachievers at Wimbledon. The nostalgia-fest, triggered by the 25th anniversary of Diego Maradona’s Hand of God goal, includes an autobiographical play.

I hope it concentrates on 30 August 2004: Newcastle United’s day of shame. Even now, nearly two years after Sir Bobby’s death, the disrespect shown by his sacking, by an institution dear to his heart, is an enduring disgrace.

It sapped the spirit of the people’s club, set in train the sequence of events that leaves tat magnate Mike Ashley, and his casino cronies, in charge.

The Toon Army may feel St James’ Park is forbidden territory to anyone born south of Scotch corner, but I got to know Sir Bobby well down the years. His legacy is embodied by such protégés as Jose Mourinho and André Villas-Boas.

The Chelsea managers, past and present, benefited from his visionary approach and generosity of spirit. They need no reminding of his impact.

This history lesson is aimed at the spivs who have stripped his game of its soul. It is an insight into unfashionable, but critically important, values.

Sir Bobby inherited his work ethic from his father Philip, who missed one shift in 51 years, mining 4ft-high coal seams beneath the Durham pit village of Langley Park.

He knew his retail value – he became the first player to sell his image rights when a cigarette card company paid three guineas for his photograph – but never forgot where he came from.

He radiated pride in his dad’s presence at the big occasions when he was England manager. A frail figure in a flat cap, Philip reminded you why his son remembered his roots.

Sir Bobby made it his business to know everything, from the number of toilet rolls in the away dressing room to the minor ailments of his players’ children

He was a beacon of humanity, and lives on as a symbol of what football in general, and Newcastle United in particular, has lost.

There is something uniquely unsettling about old men trying to deny young men a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Such obscene arrogance and ignorance strikes at the heart of what sport is supposed to be about.

Attempts to bully the likes of Tottenham’s Gareth Bale and Manchester United’s Darren Fletcher into making themselves unavailable for Team GB in next year’s Olympic Games are the thin end of a very dangerous wedge.

They smack of a Masters of the Universe mentality, which ends with FIFA time-servers thinking nothing of picking up brown envelopes containing crisp bundles of ready cash.

I’m not suggesting the dullards in the Scottish, Welsh and Irish FAs are corrupt. They are merely incompetent, selfish, and unfit for office. Let’s examine the track records of the senior citizens who’ve been shouting loudest that players should do as they say.

George Peat is outgoing president of the Scottish FA. He has presided over unparalleled decline and discord in football, north of the border. He’s fallen out with clubs, chief executives and referees, yet paints himself as a saviour.

Phil Pritchard is president of the Welsh FA. He has clambered on board assorted UEFA and FIFA gravy trains. On his watch, Wales have plunged to 114th place in the world, behind Suriname and Antigua and Barbuda.

Jim Boyce, former Irish FA president, has just joined the magic circle of FIFA’s executive committee. He wasted little time in prostrating himself at the feet of Sepp Blatter by mocking English pretences of moral superiority.

What right have these people to deny Bale a cherished opportunity? I was struck by the purity of the Tottenham midfield player’s ambition when we spoke of his chance to finally shine on the international stage.

How dare they challenge Fletcher, a player of impeccable character, who has given his all to the Scottish national side? The Manchester United midfield player would be no token captain of a composite British team.

They should treat the old men with the contempt they deserve, and put themselves up for selection.

They don’t do subtle, or understated, at the Reliant Stadium in Houston. They sell soccer like they sell rodeos and WrestleMania, with a wonderful disregard for taste and tradition.

So, when Manchester United’s Javier Hernández kneels in the centre circle, to pray before tonight’s Gold Cup semi-final between Mexico and Honduras, a blaze of flashlights, from an 80,000 crowd, will capture the defining image of what has been billed as the Second Coming.

Hernandez made his Red Devils debut there last July, against an All Star side. He returns as a global figure, a source of national pride, and every Mexican matron’s fantasy son-in-law.

Six goals in his last four internationals reaffirm the promise of his first Premier League season, the cold-eyed professionalism that is at odds with his seminary smile. But there is something extra there, something intangible but important.

Bizarrely, the comparison clicked when I was watching the brilliant documentary film on Ayrton Senna. The Brazilian Formula One driver was a spiritual being, a source of hope in a country ravaged by poverty, crime and corruption.

Hernández has the potential to be a similar unifying force in Mexico, a nation sliding towards the precipice of all-out war with drug cartels. Football, like boxing, is a sport of the streets. It is rich in symbolism.

Given the carnage, it’s probably not best to dwell on his nickname, The Baby-Faced Assassin. That was given lazily, in the aftermath of inevitable parallels with the character and skill set of United legend Ole Gunnar Solskjaer.

Hernández has a rare ruthlessness in front of goal, and has taken on board the harsh lessons of the Champions League final, where his naivety, at the highest level, was exposed. He has spoken this week of his intention “to create history” at Old Trafford.

His season will probably not end until Sunday, when Mexico are favoured to meet the United States in the Gold Cup final in the Rose Bowl in Pasadena. Next season may start all too soon, but it will be productive.

Javier Hernández, Footballer of the Year, 2012, anyone?

Imagine, for a moment, you are André Villas-Boas. Today, the longest day, is shaping up to be the biggest in your life. Everything you have worked for, schemed over, fantasised about, is within reach.

Two Latin words have a thrilling, yet terrifying relevance.

Carpe diem. Seize the day.

You’ve met Roman Abramovich, understand the nature of his obsession. The only way you will be allowed to do your job, unmolested, as Chelsea manager, is to win the Champions League in your first season.

Abramovich may be worth £10.3billion, according to the latest rich list, but he retains an orphan’s hunger. He identifies with your devotion to detail, your precocity, and your potential. You know his patronage is a fleeting privilege.

You will be stepping into a viper’s nest. Football abhors the sort of vacuum created by the brutal sacking of Carlo Ancelotti. Some of those smiling at you, should you return to Stamford Bridge, will be out to get you. As a new boy, with the owner’s ear, you are a threat.

The politics are byzantine, but the problems are pretty simple. You have to rely on the power of your personality, the depth of your intellect, and the accuracy of your instincts. The media myths – your reputation as Mourinho Mark II, or Mini Mo – are relatively easy to handle.

The dressing room is an entirely different matter. The respect for your work as Mourinho’s chief scout, the value of the tactical DVDs you produced for each player, has limited relevance.

You will need to show the senior players who is boss. That involves a quick cull. Frank Lampard and Didier Drogba, at 33 the same age as you, are expendable if you move fast in the transfer market to bring in younger models.

Dispensing with John Terry may be a step too far, initially at least. But you know he wants your job. He has been allowed to act like a kingmaker. Better, perhaps, to take a step back, and see whether Mr Chelsea is betrayed by his body.

Are you up to it? Only you know. Have a nice day.

Another golden generation of England footballers is made of base metal. As surprises go, this ranks alongside revelations that the world is round, and reports that Ryan Giggs has eased in the betting for Dad of the Year.

We’ve been here before. The abject failure of Stuart Pearce’s England U21s team, at the European Championships in Denmark, is another fusion of tactical, technical and temperamental flaws.

Long balls were lumped into oblivion. Possession was frittered through lack of composure and intelligence. Price tags didn’t make sense. Players who will earn small fortunes shrivelled in the spotlight. They were fearful, fragile, feeble.

Everyone will wring their hands for a day or two, and little will change. The FA, being the FA, will burble about long-term strategies and reward Pearce with a new two-year contract.

Not even they could listen to the bean counters, who have been whispering that Psycho is a cheap, uncomplicated choice to succeed Fabio Capello. Could they?

Worryingly, they’ve allowed Sir Trevor Brooking a lifetime’s grace as director of technical development, despite his admission he can’t envisage England producing the nimble, perceptive players creating a dynasty for Spanish football.

The raw talent is out there – try to see the stunning goal scored by Liverpool’s Raheem Sterling in England’s opening win in the Under 17 World Cup on Sunday night – but the system is shambolic.

Size matters. Winning is all. There’s no pathway for the best young coaches to develop the best young players. Too many boys fail to realise that professionalism is about more than being paid to play, about more than natural talent.

It is about having the diligence to practice until your eyeballs ache. It is about possessing the strength of character to respond to gut-wrenching setbacks. It is about bullet-proof belief.

Just ask Rory McIlroy.

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“I hope you die slowly of bad AIDS.”

Apparently this gobbet of bile, sent to my home ­computer by a so-called ­supporter, qualifies as ­football banter.

The abuse is anonymous, and it is getting worse.

Some is so vile as to be ­unrepeatable.

It is aimed at anyone who has the temerity to express an informed opinion or a legitimate loyalty to a cause.

It is directed at players, managers, club owners. The rules of common ­decency do not seem to apply.

Football is becoming a hateful game, hijacked by bullies in the name of “the fans” and free speech.

It seethes with anger, envy and contempt, feeds off a warped sense of entitlement. Message boards and ­phone-ins encourage the emotionally incontinent.

Mob rule may be fashionable, but it cannot be allowed to determine who will ­manage our biggest clubs.

Owners like Aston Villa’s Randy Lerner have the right to make their own mistakes without answering to ­exhibitionists whose protests pander to the lowest common denominator.

I know I’m going to get more stick for this, so I’ll make myself clear.

I am not talking about 99 per cent of fans, decent people who have a deeply personal commit­ment to their club. They are entitled to a strong and ­strident voice.

I am not taking issue with those who ­disagree loudly and lucidly with the views of ­people like me.

Platforms like this are a ­privilege, and criticism comes with the ­territory.

I am certainly not referring to organisations like the ­Football Supporters’ ­Federation, ­important ­advocates for a group taken for granted by the game’s grandees.

Public pressure is vital, if ­applied responsibly.

Reaction to the Premier League’s withdrawal of ­funding from Supporters ­Direct, because of cretinous comments by its former chief executive, has been so universally negative the ­decision will be quietly ­reversed.

At club level, Liverpool’s ­Justice for the 96 campaign is inspirational. Brighton fans, looking ­forward to a new ­season in a new stadium, have kept alive their club in exile.

There are too many similar examples to mention.

But those who excuse ­vandalism and vigilante ­action have to be challenged.

MUST’s anti-Glazer ­movement was undermined when the home of Manchester United chief ­executive David Gill was targeted.

Similarly, opponents of Alex McLeish’s installation at Villa Park were belittled by ­buffoons, who daubed ­slogans across the entrance to the training ground.

Assorted idiots, issuing death threats, should make Birmingham chairman Peter Pannu reconsider his ­rabble-rousing.

Lerner has ploughed ­millions into an investment he is apparently beginning to regret.

Panicked into ­rejecting Steve McClaren, he at least didn’t make the same ­mistake twice.

If Villa fans don’t agree with him, they have a ­simple option: don’t turn up.

I have the utmost respect for those United fans who refuse to subsidise the ­Glazers by buying Old ­Trafford tickets. Their ­allegiance is restricted to ­attending away games.

Tribal rivalries shape ­modern football. They are often illogical.

I bear no malice against Luton Town, but as a Watford fan, I instinctively refer to them as “The Scum”.

But seeing it ­written down in black and white is faintly embarrassing.

Almost as embarrassing as Alex Horne, the office clerk who is supposedly running the FA.

He patronisingly ­suggested selling the FA Cup to ­Budweiser would be “great for the fans”. Why? How?

Look around. Good people at all levels of the game are under siege.

Rage and ­recrimination are setting the agenda.

The silent majority needs to find a voice, and say that enough is enough.

Life would be so much simpler if we could judge Joey Barton solely as a footballer. He may be Newcastle United’s pivotal Premier League player, but he’s not quite international standard, and infinitely more trouble than he’s worth.

We can’t ignore the man, and all his flaws. He is an acquired taste, like strychnine sandwiches and sandstone sorbet. There’s something about him and his cover story of loyalty to the Geordie nation that sticks in the throat.

Despite his successful emergence from therapy, Barton lives in a strange, inverted world. He says he’s humbled that nearly 100,000 strangers follow him on Twitter, but it’s difficult to judge him at face value. He’s too self-absorbed, too manipulative to be convincing.

He understood the impact of his angry response to the sale of Kevin Nolan to West Ham. The implication he would follow the Newcastle captain out of the door, accompanied by José Enrique and Jonás Gutiérrez, stirred inevitable tensions at St James’ Park.

Barton can be devastatingly articulate but, ultimately, he is playing Newcastle on a break. He cannot lose. If he sees out the final year of his contract, his free transfer will act as his pension plan. If he is sold, he will protest, while picking up a fat signing-on fee elsewhere.

Don’t waste too much of your sympathy on owner Mike Ashley, whose Bible is a balance sheet. He had the chance to seize the moral high ground when Barton was jailed in 2008, but refused to take a hit on his £5.8million transfer fee.

Letting Barton go, in the current window, makes sense. Manager Alan Pardew is trying to instil discipline into the dressing room. He is recruiting younger, hungrier players such as French midfielder Yohan Cabaye.

He doesn’t need the distraction of a senior pro counting the days until he cashes in.