In what is quite frankly an astonishing turn of events, the Premier League is back next weekend. It seems like only yesterday that the red half of Liverpool were celebrating as champions. We’re as shocked as you are, but we have checked, and double-checked and yes, it’s back. Leeds are in it again, too. We are through the looking glass. But before the action on the pitch returns, we are turning our attention to the touchline, looking at five famous managers, five different approaches to management and five very different approaches to style. So, here we go: which Premier League Manager do you most identify with?

Listen. We’ve all had a phase. Some of us have had a few. Granted, we usually get them out of the way early. Teens, twenties, thirties at a push. If you’re going to queue up for a T-shirt, or dye your hair, or get really, really tragically into anything that is expensive and Japanese, you’re probably going to get it out of the way in the first three decades of your life. But phases, we’ve had ’em. Mr Pep Guardiola is the guy who, at the big age of 49, is having a phase. Or is it a mid-life crisis? The Stone Island jackets, gone. The rollnecks, outta here. That extra-large cardigan, which looked quite like a Brillo pad but sold out online when he wore it, landfill. Got rid of it all, mate. He just wears hoodies now. Mr Guardiola is a graphic hoodie guy. Matches them to his trainers. He’s calling them sneakers now, though. Which is new. Your actual streetwear dad. One step short of collecting Dragon Ball Z figurines and buying a Tesla. You go for it, man. Let’s try and get you back in the big boy’s gear by the time you’re 50, though.

The Swoosh may be making in-roads on Merseyside, but I’m afraid the Germans still rule the roost when it comes to sportswear. Mr Jürgen Klopp is the man in the aisle seat on your flight, buying tiny can of pilsner after tiny can of pilsner, charming the flight attendants, he’s only got carry-on luggage and boy does he look comfortable. The laugh. You can hear it over your podcasts. Your carefully curated list of podcasts. He doesn’t appear interested in podcasts. He’s making friends left right and centre. They’re asking about his sneakers, trying on his glasses. Asking for help with their fantasy football team. You spotted him in the lounge, a copy of Der Spiegel under his arm, he’d made a little goal out of some coffee cups and was flicking sugar sachets through it. You just knew you’d be sat next to him. How does one get a tracksuit to fit so well? To look so sophisticated? Must be tailored. You shift uncomfortably in your selvedge denim. You can google the tracksuit when you land, maybe the trainers, too, actually, perhaps the glasses. Back to the podcasts for now. Two more hours to Munich.

A man who tuts more often than he blinks. Looks at his watch more often than he exhales. Hasn’t had a smile without a passive-aggressive undercurrent since 2012. Seen it all. Done it all. Got a trench coat full of your wildest dreams, a briefcase full of medals, keeps the Champions League trophy next to his bed. Lived in a hotel for a year-and-a-half, and he’s very happy to tell you why. Always be closing. If you come at the king you best not miss. You can’t handle the truth. Show me the money. And so on, and so on. What does a man need, when there is nothing left to achieve? You are Willy Loman, I am Gordon Gekko, and I have completely missed the lesson of that film. Evidently. I need polo shirts under Oxford shirts, I need a new form of understated power dressing, I need zipped-up sleek black tops, which are (probably) made by Loro Piana. I’m not sure if I need to start shaving my own hair, trimming it to within a whisker of my actual skull, but I’m doing it. I am the sort of man who can ruin a stag do before it’s left Gatwick Airport. I can cast a cloud over a camping weekend before we are out of the drive. Are you going to tell me to stop, and that you are all a bit worried about me? That I might be working too hard? No, didn’t think so.

“Would you like a mint humbug? They’re Everton mints, of course. Great team, Everton. Played them last year. Wonderful place. Bit of a long journey on the bus, mind. Finished my sudoku by Watford Gap. Where was I? Oh yes, the mints. Hold fire, they’re in my good cardigan. Got it from Copenhagen, I have managed there, of course. Copenhagen…” Mr Roy Hodgson is a walking Werther’s Original, Last Of The Summer Wine set in the dugout. Mr Ronnie Corbett in the hot seat, instead of the big, lovely armchair. We might only ever see him looking lost in a suit, but that’s purely business. After all, this is a man who, when asked what he would do to celebrate if his old team Fulham stayed in the Premier League, said, “I wouldn’t need to celebrate… I would quite happily go home and have a glass of water and read my book… I found Schultz in an antique shop in Brighton. I’ve read it about five times.” That was 12 years ago. No, the weekend for men like Mr Hodgson is all about cricket on the village green, pastel V-necks and action slacks, maybe some gardening Crocs. Neutral tones twinned with orthopaedic shoes and reaction lenses. It’s about comfort, first and foremost.

“Mi scusi,” says the man in the sunglasses with the broad Northern Italian accent, “pass the milk.” You fumble with your flat white, and slide the jug towards him. You’re in a Costa Coffee in suburban Liverpool, the floors are sticky and children are screaming, but you feel as if you are on Via Monte Napoleone. “Grazie.” What happened to the motorbike boys from Italy’s bustling cities of the 1980s and 1990s? Well, they grew up of course, and traded bubble jackets for sleek overcoats, stonewashed denim for something a little more sophisticated, and Milan for, er, Merseyside. It’s sophistication of a different type, it’s long walks along the waterfront, and trying to convince midfielders to swap Turin for Toxteth. It’s big brands, big prices, ice-cold Mr Carlo Ancelotti – a man with access to better coat and suit tailors than a 1950s ‘Ndrangheta boss.