OPTIMISM is one of the nobler human characteristics. You would assume it is an adaptive evolutionary trait designed to stop us all killing ourselves, and so, I suppose, we should be very grateful for it. Occasionally, though, in extreme cases, it can teeter into a form of derangement and a separation from reality. Such was the case for about 52,000 people at St James’ Park yesterday. They should have called in the shrinks for a spot of mass ECT.

The supporters of Aston Villa and Newcastle began the season expecting, as a sort of human right enforceable through EU legislation, a trophy come the end of May and a Champions League placing. The rest of us could have told them, back in August, that neither expectation would be realised and that mid-table was about the best they could expect, together with the pretty much perpetual, sulphurous whiff of relegation in their nostrils and a peremptory exit from cup competitions at the hands of supposedly lesser mortals — though I don’t suppose any of us would have fingered Doncaster Rovers as one of the culprits.

Villa last won a couple of notable honours about 25 years ago — including, rather gloriously, the European Cup — and that was merely a fleeting moment of light in half a century of consuming darkness. It was their first league championship since the Titanic was afloat and, since then, they have not unduly bothered the elite. They haven’t won an FA Cup in nearly 50 years, either.

The poor, benighted Geordies are labouring under an even graver misapprehension. Some 80 years since a league title, 50 since winning the FA Cup and almost 40 since they picked up a trophy of any real value. Both have subsequently done time way down in the lower divisions but have managed to convince themselves that these protracted periods of ignominy were simply unfortunate anomalies. Now, they’re back where they belong and poised for greatness. You know, much as I’d like to believe it, I don’t think so. It may be true that both of you have had consistently massive and passionate support (particularly so in the case of Newcastle — the second highest attendances in the Premiership and all of them wearing T-shirts in the middle of winter) and that your teams have, by contrast, spectacularly underachieved. Arguably, no team has underachieved to a more staggering degree than Newcastle. But however much of a “big” club you believe yourselves to be, you both have to grasp two essential, related points: you’re not going to win anything. And God hates you.

As a consequence of their dismal performances this season, the two sets of fans have turned on their respective managers. They seem to really, really loathe them. And you have to say — as a casual, disinterested observer — there is an enormous amount to dislike about both Graeme Souness and David O’Leary. One is a perpetually sclerotic jock whose modus operandi seems to be to identify his team’s best player and then do everything he can to drive him from the club and who, despite his reputation as an uncompromising tough guy, issues forth a perpetual whine about the injustices and vicissitudes of life (i.e. referees). And the other, a man whose unusual loquaciousness conceals a pretty questionable record as a manager and who is apt to issue a perpetual whine about the injustices and vicissitudes of life (i.e. referees).

It is often said that Mr O’Leary is the most likeable manager Leeds United have enjoyed in recent years. Well, sure, let’s concede that point immediately. But given the list of previous incumbents at Elland Road — George Graham, Howard Wilkinson, Don Revie etc — this is a bit like describing somebody as being the most compassionate leader of Haiti in recent years or the most talented competitor on The X Factor or the most interesting candidate for leadership of the Conservative party. In truth, O’Leary’s success at Leeds was built largely on the brilliant youth policy of one of his predecessors, Paul Hart: what O’Leary did was add to the mix of Lee Bowyer, Harry Kewell, Jonathan Woodgate, Alan Smith, Nigel Martyn et al, the astonishing, mercurial, match-winning talents of the likes of Seth Johnson — and spend untold millions doing so, virtually bankrupting the club into the bargain. At Villa he has fielded pouty, good-looking moppets with alice bands like Milan Baros and Juan Pablo Angel who, unfortunately, have a marked disinclination to score any goals, ever. But they look terribly distrait and attractive when they miss from three yards on Match of the Day.

Both O’Leary and Souness took over at their present clubs from variably respected ex-England managers, namely Graham Taylor and Sir Bobby Robson. The former is usually regarded as a bit of a biffer, whereas Sir Bobby is adored the length and breadth of the country. This is perhaps another example of the distorting prism of football: Taylor’s raw England record (games won versus games lost) is almost as good as Sir Bobby’s. And his list of achievements at club level is pretty much unimpeachable, certainly exceeding what one would expect from a root vegetable. Neither of these eminent gentlemen were able to do very much at those sleeping giants, Newcastle and Villa. Both left with their ears ringing with the complaints of supporters aghast that, unaccountably, their reasonable expectations — winning the Premiership, plus the FA Cup, Champions League and so on — had not remotely been met. If they can’t do it, why would you expect any more from managers who had won, frankly, bugger all at Blackburn Rovers and Leeds?

It is a rare thing to feel sympathy for the likes of O’Leary and Souness and I dare say the feeling will pass quite quickly. A little like the seasons of their respective clubs, sadly.

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