John Winston Lennon was noted for his ear for a catchy tune, protesting in bed and his atrocious taste in women, but what you may be unaware of is his psychic abilities. Although his opus A Day In The Life was written and composed in 1967 and is believed to be about a young heir to the Guinness fortune crashing his sports car it was actually inspired from a vision Lennon had of a Premier League fixture forty-four years later.

I read the news today oh boy
About a lucky man who made the grade
And though the news was rather sad
Well I just had to laugh
I saw the photograph

It would take a stone heart not to feel some sympathy at the sight of Steve Kean standing dejected on the touchline enduring the closing minutes of what could prove to be his final game in charge at the top level. Alas I am that man. For someone who has been over-promoted into a position that is well beyond his limitations he has never – not once – shown an ounce of humility during his brief, forgettable tenure. Kean’s cocky, gruff bravado was initially cloying. This soon turned to exasperation as he continued to talk the talk despite showing no discernable insight or talent as a top flight manager. He is, in short, completely out of his depth; a fortuitous man in the right place, at the right time, with the wrong credentials.

His legacy – should he indeed even be afforded one – will be of a man who suffered delusions of grandeur and whose refusal to bow to pressure repeatedly resulted in him belittling the vocal disenchantment amongst the paying public. He didn’t notice that the lights had changed.

I saw a film today oh boy
The English Army had just won the war
A crowd of people turned away

With the mist still thick from Tevez’s lobbed grenade this was far more than a game; it was an oath of allegiance for the travelling blues. A vociferous, unequivocal nailing of colours to the mast. From almost the very first minute the Balotelli song was struck up with ground-shaking gusto. The king is dead, long live the idiot savant. Super Mario may infuriate but he would only throw such a strop of Munich proportions if deprived of wearing the shirt, not being offered it.

Mancini too received thunderous, sustained gratitude for coming over from Italy to manage Man City leaving the media in no doubt that if Tevez’s intentions were to divide and conquer it had only created stronger unity. Someone really should have informed the scabby-necked Argentine of our history before he tried to bring us down. We’re battle-scarred veterans with such dramas. Compared to Swales, Ball, Pearce, and plummeting down the divisions whilst our hated rivals soar into uncharted dominance he is nothing more than an expensive inconvenience.

The way Blackburn crumbled with little fight was the most damning indictment on Keen and his men.

Kean meanwhile must have heard such backing and wept inside. From his left instead came deafening calls for his head as Ewood Park became a modern-day coliseum – one gladiator being spared by public support with the other thrown to the lions.

I only wish I was there but unfortunately I….

Woke up, fell out of bed,
Dragged a comb across my head
Found my way upstairs and had a smoke
and somebody spoke and I went into a dream

Until late in the week I was going to the game. Ewood Park is one of my favourite awaydays – easy to get to and full of happy memories for blues – and I was buzzing in anticipation. But for reasons that are too banal to commit to print I was unable to attend. Which meant that I had to resort to the questionable joys of a live stream. Worse yet, having returned home at a couple of minutes past three it was a panicked rush to locate a suitable channel. Streaming is such a maddening experience. It is a uniquely frustrating bathos seeing David Silva find space on the edge of the area, pulling back his velvet trigger of a left peg to fire home…only to have the screen suddenly freeze. Ten seconds of expletive-strewn torture later the increasingly impressive Hoillet appears with the ball in the opposing half.

I read the news today oh boy
Four thousand holes in Blackburn, Lancashire

As soon as Adam Johnson curled in the sublime first I knew the proverbial floodgates would open. The Blackburn defence had been resolute until then – hunting in packs, depriving space in key areas, Samba as imperious as Distin the previous Saturday.

But inevitably the resolve of any team dwelling in the bottom three – even at such a nascent stage of the season – is brittle. One goal can often cause an instant fissure and no return. Shoulders slump. The fans turn. Pessimistic acceptance spreads through the players like a highly contagious virus.

The way Blackburn crumbled with little fight was the most damning indictment on Keen and his men, more so than the overall performance or result, and points him towards the exit door.

Suddenly the restricted pockets in which the Twinkle Twins had to work in became gaping holes big enough to fill the Albert Hall. Nasri and Silva exploited them with relish and are now first and second in the Premier League’s assist table. Yaya had more time on the ball than he ever will experience again in his career. Milner was industrious throughout while Balotelli prowled with his usual laid-back menace.

Ultimately it was all-too-easy with even our Richard Ashcroft look-a-like Savic bagging the fourth. Maybe he is the lucky man in the opening verse?

That’s the true genius of the Beatles songbook – so many interpretations.