Things they are probably not telling Ronaldinho in Porto Alegre are that Manchester City last won a trophy worth bragging about in 1976. And, no, it was not the European Cup. They can probably skip over the directions to the training ground, too, given his record of absenteeism at Barcelona. Best just to point him towards the Living Room bar.

As for tactics and a role in the team, that can wait for another day. Thaksin Shinawatra, City’s owner, has sent one of his Thai assistants rather than Mark Hughes, the new City manager, to try to pull off the deal. Work out the shirt sales first, then worry about whether the maestro will track back.

It should be one of the greatest transfer coups, so why does it prompt such cynicism? Because signing for City for a mountain of cash would not tell us anything good about the club, Ronaldinho or, for that matter, English football.

It would remind us that one of the modern greats has fallen to such a low ebb that, at 28, he is not attracting the interest of any of Europe’s leading powerhouses. That we are getting a washed-up version. Not even Roman Abramovich will touch Ronaldinho now that he has slid so far down the other side of the mountain and the oligarch was once so smitten that he hand-delivered a Chelsea shirt with “Ronaldinho” on the back.

Perhaps most depressing is the realisation that Hughes, one of the most promising British managers, has jumped for a club where signings are by committee — and he does not own the casting vote. He missed out on Chelsea, but, grasping the City job, has thrown his hat in with Chelsea Lite.

The alarm bells should have been ringing for Hughes if he read one report yesterday claiming that Thai backers and corporate sponsors are helping to finance the proposed deal. They will be the strangers in suits demanding to know why the superstar Brazilian is on the bench, or is being taken off, away to Sunderland in January. They will not want to hear that Ronaldinho has not turned up for training or is failing to pick up his man.

Of course, Hughes will argue (just as José Mourinho did, more and more unconvincingly at Chelsea) that he is in control, just as he will have convinced himself — because who wouldn’t? — that he can get Ronaldinho back to his prime.

He will fight off the obvious concerns that if Barcelona could not get the great Brazilian’s competitive juices flowing, if the thought of playing alongside Lionel Messi and Deco could not get him to training on time (if at all), if challenging for the Champions League was all a bit of a chore, then City may have trouble lighting his fires.

And for a while, Ronaldinho may even pull off a few tricks and sell plenty of shirts and everyone will convince themselves that it was a great idea.

But one morning it will hit Ronaldinho that he threw it all away in pursuit of a good time, that he is the shell of a great player. And it will be Hughes left holding a bib wondering why his No 10 has not shown up. He will walk back into his office, through the door that says manager, knowing that he was never truly in charge.

Getting a better read on Murray

To save you the time, energy and expense, I skim-read Andy Murray’s (first) autobiography at the weekend. As premature memoirs go, it may just have set a British record, usurping Wayne Rooney’s My Story So Far, aged $½.