From the Theatre of Dreams to the Temple of Dildo. For David Moyes the last three years have been a curious kind of journey. Through the fag-end of an empire at Manchester United, to Real Sociedad and the sack, to Sunderland and relegation, Moyes has strode past the smoke and wreckage with a strained kind of dignity, always somehow a little starched and pained in his crisp white shirts, eyes wide, a man watching things happen to himself.

He is though still a story, still a name, still a man with a reputation to restore. For his unveiling as West Ham manager, the Great Briton Room on the third floor of the London Stadium was abuzz with a rare kind of event glamour. Cameras whirred, microphones clicked, necks cranedanxiously as the clock ticked past four and outside the lights of the City glimmered through the jaffa-coloured haze of a pollution-sunset.

And finally there he was, entering from a small door to the right of the stage, immaculate in skinny black suit, maroon tie and mini-poppy. And not just smiling but beaming wildly, giddy, thrilled, and definitely not – this is vital – in any way gloomy and fatalistic. Moyes looked trim and fit. He skipped up the steps pointing and waving and greeting the press by name like an American politician and looking, in the circumstances, only a little bit anxious.

David Moyes has ‘point to prove’ after being appointed West Ham manager Read more

As well he might. The last few years have been tough on Moyes. Everton