So Michael Carrick is out there doing pre-season planning, scouting targets, mapping out Manchester United's 2026-27 campaign. Very professional. Very diligent. Only one small problem. Nobody's told him if he'll actually be the manager when all this planning comes to fruition.

Welcome to football management, son. Grab a seat. Not that one. That one belongs to whoever replaces you.

In my day, this wasn't news. This was just called Wednesday. I spent 20 years in the lower leagues planning pre-seasons for clubs that hadn't decided whether I'd still be breathing their oxygen by May. You think Michael Carrick invented working under existential dread? I was doing it before he was born. Well, nearly.

I once spent three weeks putting together a recruitment dossier for Barrow. Typed it all up myself. Fifty pages. Player profiles, wage projections, the lot. Handed it to the chairman on a Friday afternoon. He thanked me, shook my hand warmly, and sacked me on the Monday. Used my dossier too, the sly so and so. The lad I'd recommended from Morecambe scored 14 goals the next season. For Barrow. Under someone else. I still can't eat fish because it reminds me of that town.

That's the problem with modern football. Everyone acts like Carrick's situation is some unique psychological hardship. Poor Michael, planning without certainty. Mate, I used to order training cones not knowing if I'd be there to set them out. I once booked a team coach to Hartlepool three days before I got the boot. My assistant had to take the lads. They lost 4-0. Served him right for accepting the caretaker role.

But here's what gets me. Really gets me. The reason Carrick doesn't know his future isn't because the board are watching results or assessing his coaching. It's because somewhere in a boardroom, possibly in another country, possibly on a yacht, people who've never stood in a dugout during sleet at Accrington are deciding whether the "project" aligns with the "vision" and the "brand trajectory." Don't get me started.

In my day, you knew where you stood. The chairman would look you in the eye at half time, usually with a meat pie in his hand, and you could tell from the way he chewed whether you had a job on Monday. It was honest. It was direct. It was terrifying, but at least nobody called it a "strategic review period."

The thing is, Carrick's actually doing the right thing. What else is he supposed to do? Sit around waiting for permission to care about next season? Stop working? That's not how managers operate. You plan. You plot. You prepare. Even when you know in your bones that some suit is going to hand the whole thing to someone with a better CV and a nicer coat.

I'll tell you what Carrick should do. Print everything out. Every plan, every target, every tactical blueprint. Put it in a folder. Label it clearly. Then take it home with you every single night. Because the moment you leave it in that office, it belongs to whoever sits in your chair next.

Trust me. I learned that the hard way. Twice.

Some manager in League Two right now is doing the exact same thing as Carrick. Planning next season without a contract. Scouting players he might never sign. Drawing up set pieces he might never coach. Nobody's writing articles about him. Nobody's asking if he's okay. He's just getting on with it because that's what managers do.

So chin up, Michael. You're not alone. You're just the most expensive version of a very old, very miserable story.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a filing cabinet full of pre-season plans from clubs that sacked me. Makes for wonderful kindling.