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Brendan Rodgers’ return to the Premier League is almost certainly good news for Leicester City supporters and a boon too for the media.

The 46-year-old has a proven track record of rejuvenating clubs while his emphasis on player development could easily take the Foxes fine crop of young talent to the next level. As for the press he is – in a nutshell - not Claude Puel. Indeed he is the very antithesis of the French charisma vacuum.

There is a third group too who will be happy at this week’s surprise development, that saw Rodgers suddenly depart Glasgow with a third treble-winning season in sight. Prominent among us are those who find the Northern Irishman’s excruciating over-sincerity, manic mannerisms, and staggering delusions of grandeur to be so similar to David Brent as to be considered comedy gold. Look at his expression, haha. Have you heard what the clown has claimed now, haha. They’ll be chuffed at and grateful for the new material.

I used to wish I was in this group and with his untimely restoration to the English back pages and Super Sunday cameras I’m envious again now because it would make my life a whole lot easier if I found the botoxed buffoon in any way, shape or form hilarious. Alas I don’t. Alas I am firmly ensconced in the other constituency, the one labelled as ‘the rest of us’.

The rest of us are not jumping for joy at Rodgers being back. The rest of us recoiled at the news, our hearts sinking down through our legs and into our trainers, and that’s because the rest of us regard him to be, by some considerable distance the most conceited, hypocritical, and intensely annoying manager to ever inhabit a technical area.

If Brendan Rodgers was made of chocolate he absolutely wouldn’t eat himself, as the saying goes. Because then the world would be deprived of a chocolate Brendan Rodgers. Also it would stain his blindingly white teeth. He is a man so vainglorious that he has a large portrait of himself in his living room, and yes I’m aware it was bought to aid a local charity but nobody made him hang it there. Just like nobody makes him attend sunbed sessions so frequently that David Dickinson is in danger of asking for his face back.

He is – to my knowledge – the only manager to have his own signature celebration, an act as self-absorbed from a man in his position as to defy belief. It began at Liverpool with his side on a title charge and by default stealing some of his limelight and it is all too easy to imagine Rodgers at home practising the raised arm and pursed lips when first conceived, as his glamorous other half critiqued from the sofa. “Fit babe, but now try it with the other jacket”.

Ah Liverpool and his time on Merseyside, where do we start with that? Here’s where we start, by pointing out that recently the nation has been debating why so many neutrals are desperate for the Reds to fall short once again in their pursuit of a Premier League crown. The zealousness of their fans has been offered up as a primary reason with the fear that we’ll never hear the end of it. Klopp too has been suggested and, perhaps, to an extent there is the fact that Liverpool have never won this incarnation of the league and we’re nowhere near ready yet to relinquish that priceless bit of banter.

What shouldn’t be forgotten however is that the main reason Liverpool are so unpopular at present is because we all remember too well how interminably insufferable Rodgers was in 2013/14. How vomit-inducingly pious he was, regarding a very big club with a very good team challenging for a major honour as if it was a cause as worthy as the civil rights movement. Each and every week it was ‘Liverpool football club’, ‘we don’t do that at Liverpool football club’, ‘this football club…’, ‘we’re a family at Liverpool football club’. His constant aggrandisement of LFC amounted to a cheap peddling of folklores that were not his to peddle but unsurprisingly the masses gobbled it up all the same.

You never hear the real greats of Liverpool – let’s say Kenny Dalglish - speak like this because it was they who made the club great in the first place. For them it would just be boasting. Rodgers though, for the briefest of successful times that ended in failure, rode on their coat-tails shamelessly, all the while raising his arm and pursing his lips, trying to look ten years younger.

He is a man who lectures endlessly about the importance of virtue who once reneged on a gentleman’s agreement with Swansea not to sign their players and later mocked Southampton for their lack of ambition after raiding them for their best talent. He is a man who speaks constantly of character who fully deserves this character assassination.

“I’ll give my life to make the supporters proud of their club,” he insisted on being unveiled as Leicester’s new boss. Bloody hell, just hours in and he’s off already, talking himself up and uttering corny rejected lines from Game Of Thrones. Some will find this amusing. Some will delight in him. To the rest of us his next departure already can’t come soon enough.