It is 19th May 2016, and Michael Emenalo has been sacked as interim Chelsea boss after losing the Europa League final to Manchester City.
Amid the priceless, precision engineered grandfather clocks flanking Basel's most expensive hotel reception – each with a face as austere and emotionless as Arsene Wenger – sit three out of work millionaires.
One man, the younger of the three, drains a glass, before saying: “Jose, you claim to be the greatest coach this club ever had...”
He is stopped short of the end of his sentence: “Claim to be? Claim? To? Be? Three Premier League trophies, one FA Cup, three League Cups, one Community Shield.”
He holds up eight fingers: “Tell me about your glorious reign, Andre...”
The first of the two fires an expression of mock outrage, before furrowing his brow: “Have some perspectivity, Jose. My Chelsea was in a state of acclimatisationism, with a medium-low occasional block, and outstanding organigramification issues.”
Quick as anything comes the reply: “Your team, Andre, won nothing. Nothing.”
A frosty silence descends over the table, as the third man exhales the cloud left by a Cuban cigar, before gently swirling a glass of red.
Raising an eyebrow – just the one – and with a lilting smile, that third man gently interjects: “My round. Fancy a double, Jose? Or is that not your sort of thing? Doubles, I mean?”
The offer is met with a grimace.
“Nice try, Carlo. And nice pay-off from Real. But tell me, what is more difficult: clearing-up after Rafa, or leaving a mess for him? I know which would be more fun.”
All three chuckle.
“OK,” says the grayer and slightly more rotund of the three, now stubbing that cigar out in an ashtray lined with a €500 note, “while we're on the subject, let's talk pay-offs.”
He sets down a napkin, pulls out a Cartier gold fountain pen from inside his smoking jacket, and scribbles down just two digits and a letter: '12m'.
The younger of the three takes the pen, and admires it for a second, before writing the same: '12m'.
The other man seems disinterested. “Come on Jose,” demand his drinking partners together. “How much?”
He regards the pen before putting it on the table, and pulling out one of his own – identical.
With a flourish, he writes on the napkin: '10m'.
A pause, and another two numbers and a letter: '30m'.
Then, drawing a line under all four jottings, some arithmetic is performed, the total underneath in bold blue ink running into the fine paper of the napkin: '64m'.
“Pounds sterling?” with an arched brow.
“Indubitably,” with a youthful snigger.
“A Pogba,” with the pen still in his hand.
All three raise their refilled glasses in a mini toast and, without prompting, share the one word: “Roman!”
Just then a waiter walks in with a telephone on a silver salver.
“Excuse me, sirs, I have a call from a Russian gentleman...”
All three turn to him with a slightly puzzled expression.
“He says he wants to speak to the man with the gold watch and the ego about a job vacancy...”
