This isn't about David Moyes.

This isn't about the current manager of Manchester United who, quite possibly, may just be about the only Brit in the world who might consider exchanging places with Anton Casey right now.

I mean, which is worse - being hated by an entire country in Casey's "stench of public transport" case or being laughed at by an entire football world for the sad and shocking end of an empire?

You must have heard the jokes, right?

What's the surest way to get three more points for your exam?

Play Manchester United.

What do David Moyes and Brazil's nervous World Cup committee have in common?

They both blame it on Rio.

What did Moyes say when he found Alex Ferguson in his bed?

Thank God you're here!

Oh, there are millions of them.

E-mail me and I'll make more as I get inspired by Poor Mr Moyes' Dracula-about-to-be-impaled ashen-faced expression.

But this isn't about PMM (Poor Mr Moyes).

At this moment, PMM unfortunately doesn't have the injured RVP (Robin van Persie) or WR (Wayne Rooney) and worse, he can't even RSVP to the Everton-Better-Horse-Leh Chinese New Year reunion dinner.

Life is so cruel.

At least, Fergie still has his OBE.

That's a fine tradition, this Order of the British Empire medal.

I believe, at the end of his moderately successful Man U tenure next week, next month or next payday, Moyes should also get a customary DME - Disorder of the Manchester Empire.

Now, you and I and even our great great grandfathers are too young to have seen the destruction of history's all-powerful empires.

The Roman Empire, Persian Empire, Ottoman Empire, Tang Dynasty, Ming Dynasty, heck, even the Duck Dynasty.

But I tell you, unless you're burning Red-Devil classic in your veins, we are really lucky to be alive at this very instant.

We are eyewitnesses to a very thrilling and momentous time in mankind right now - the fall of the Man U Empire.

To prepare you for such an important historic event, let me detail for you what this total debacle would look like.

Firstly, the natives would flee.

Some will panic, some may lose their heads, others their hair, but they will all run like Ryan Giggs chasing a retirement home.

Secondly, the ground will open up and a big gaping hole will form and those stricken might plunge into a dark and scary underworld of lost, forlorn souls called either the Europa League or No Bloody Euro League At All.

Thirdly, dreaded enemies, smelling abject fear, will invade, attack, raid and plunder in relentless waves to seize the defenceless crown in the king's chamber.

Now if you're squeamish - especially when the victorious knights of olde you worship are Sir Beckham, Sir Cantona and Sir Ronaldo - close your eyes immediately for you will surely not be prepared for the crown to be pillaged by barbarians such as the monstrous Orc Mourinho, sly sorcerer Wenger, or the disgusting trolls from upstart tribes as far away as Liverpool or Tottenham.

Worst of all is that unforgivable shame of utter humiliation at being wiped out by noisy, uncivilised neighbours led by a peregrine falcon-like conqueror with sharp claws named Pellegrini.

Did you see Manuel Pellegrini grin after his Manchester City combo of Negredo-Aguero-Dzeko scored another 10 more goals?

I swear he was thanking the oil wells of Arabia that he isn't saddled with the Man United strike force of Misso-Divo-Zero.

You can only pray for one thing when such an invasion occurs.

You pray for the king to be spared in the spirit of human decency.

But this isn't about the decent David Moyes.

He's too nice a chap to say that in a high-stakes game of Texas hold 'em poker, he's been handed five useless mahjong tiles.

He's too courteous to complain that Manchester United's aching old legs were on such a decline before he took over that a blood transfusion bank should've arrived way before he did.

He's too respectful to b***h that Sir Alex, the cheery, smiling legend, didn't just sell him a phony dream, he sold him the phony dream of a wonderful journey on the Titanic.

Oh, Fergie, that old cheeky rascal.

Man, if he'd wanted to be dearly missed and then urgently petitioned to claim his old job back, he could've just staged a fake funeral with 10,000 singers and 100,000 mourners in a cathedral.

That would've been so much easier, Marouane Fellaini would still be drying his hair at Everton, and Poor Mr Moyes would be planning comfortably for mid-table supremacy right at this moment.

But no, this isn't about David Moyes.

Life, as everybody over one day old knows, sometimes bestows upon us great power we're totally unprepared for.

Like Spider-Man before he climbed his toilet wall.

Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them, as Shakespeare once enlightened.

Some, though, perhaps wished they were never born.

They might've preferred not to have to wake up yet again to a brand new bright red day.

Staying home, feeling miserable, being saddled with the good old blues just sounds so much like a happier preposition.

Like I said though, this isn't about David Moyes.