Watching the latest Newcastle United match against Everton on TV, I turned to the missus after 10 minutes and said: “We’re not gonna win this one.”

My verdict was less than insightful; anyone inside St James’ Park on Monday night would have quickly realised the visitors looked the better team and were seemingly playing with an extra man, such was their early control.

Matthais Jassle fronted up in post-match interviews but there was little comfort in his words. “It’s not easy to explain as it looked so good during the week [in training]. The lads looked committed and the confidence was there. Today from the start the confidence was missing. We need to improve really fast. We have to encourage them that they are able to do it, that they have the potential to play in that way.”

The task of restoring confidence is a tough gig for any manager, never mind one whose experience of coaching in the Premier League was as comprehensive as mine only three months ago.

Apart from the encounters with an undercooked Liverpool and a hapless Tottenham, there have been only glimpses of “the Jaissle way” this season. We started like thoroughbreds against the previously unbeaten Hull City, then ran out of energy. We blew away Crystal Palace in the 15 minutes immediately after the interval at a windswept Selhurst Park, having produced a first half of dire quality.

The head coach says he sees the players do it in training. That’s worth diddly squat once they cross the white line and are confronted not by their mates but by opponents determined to make us second best. Everton have done it twice, so have Villa, Coventry and Leeds United.

Time for a history lesson. In the mid-70s, the Mackems bought a young winger called Tom Finney. No, not the Preston plumber. This one was a Northern Irishman who played a total of 15 games at Joker Park before leaving for Cambridge United, whom he served with distinction, scoring 56 times in 268 appearances.

So what’s all that got to do with the price of fish? Well, Finney was the subject of an article in the Chronicle by Len Hetherington (the Sunderland version of the great John Gibson) in which the footballer was described as having every quality needed to be a big success. There was just one problem: those abundant skills were seen every time he trained but come match day he was deeply underwhelming.

Which reminds me of an oft-cited quote by the baseball legend Yogi Berra: “Ninety per cent of the game is half-mental.” Even those who struggle with maths should be able to get the drift. An awful lot of competitive sport is played in the head.
There’s little difference between confidence and belief. They are almost synonyms. Our German coach says the players are lacking confidence. I suspect belief is the missing ingredient: the players are struggling to believe he is the answer to the question set when Eddie Howe walked away.

Jaissle is 38, with a cv showing success in the Austrian league and in Saudi Arabia. The latter is regarded by most football fans as a vanity project by the Saudi Arabia PIF (who just happen to be the majority owners of Newcastle United). I have not watched even one minute of action, despite the dubious attraction of the preening Portuguese poster boy. My bad!

As for the Austrian League, 11 years ago I found myself in that country’s fascinating capital city. A bit of essential research told me the Prater Park (where the big wheel featured in The Third Man, a 1949 film noir, still slowly turns) was home to Rapid Vienna. They had been runners-up to Red Bull Salzburg in the 2014-15 league. They were top of the table. They were hosting one of their biggest rivals, so what’s a football follower to do?

Leaving Lady R to explore the many other attractions of the area, I headed for the stadium.

The match was dreadful, almost as bad as the first half at Palace last month. The fans spent much of the afternoon goading each other rather than watching the ball, a response quite understandable because of the quality , or lack of, on show. No attempts on target from either side until I broke the habit of a lifetime and walked out with five minutes left. Inevitably, the hosts, whom I had already renamed Vapid Vienna, scored a late, late winner.

For the record, Red Bull Salzburg won the Austrian Bundesliga title for 10 consecutive seasons from 2014, including two when the head coach was Herr Jaissle. That gives some perspective to his achievements.

The other highlight of that day (apart from a failed rendezvous blamed on the presence of a second big wheel in the Prater Park and confusion over Central European Time) was a conversation with the hotel receptionist.

When I asked if she was a fan and said I had just been to watch the league leaders, she looked bemused. “Yes, I am, but not of Austrian football. Why did you go? It’s rubbish.”

OK, that was only one match and the opinion of only one local . . . but maybe she was spot-on. The lesser-known Bundesliga is a long way down the pecking order of Uefa competitions.

Hiring a manager who won two titles there is clearly better than hiring a manager without any honours. Are his medals enough to convince battle-hardened Premier League players, though? The evidence so far suggests that question has not been answered in the affirmative.

We all know there are explanations for the bumps in the road. Our best players sold, even if at least two of them were not at their best last season. Raw young recruits brought in as replacements, though Hornicek, Dedic and Gonzalez were the only summer signings in last night’s line-up. All three are experienced compared with Steur and Toure, who outshone all their teammates despite playing cameo roles.

What is the biggest, most relevant explanation? A lot of supporters are looking no further than the head coach.

Jamie Smith’s excellent match report paints a picture of woe that is difficult to dispute. I’ll be at Craven Cottage on Saturday for a non-televised, 3pm traditional kick-off, thanks to a person who knows a person who has a spare ticket.

Perhaps my first appearance in the away end at Fulham for 47 seasons will bring United a change of fortune.

Until then, there’s a catchily annoying song flying around my brain like a moth trapped in old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. The seemingly endless summer has finally given way to autumn storms in West Sussex. There’s a chill in the morning air. Twenty months on from the greatest day in the club’s modern history, all I can hear is James Dean Bradfield singing: “You stole the sun from my heart.”

At least he adds: “I love you all the same.”