It's just short of two years since Burley took the reins at St Mary's and then set about a much needed overhaul of a bloated squad, brought about by the plethora of managerial changes thanks to Rupert Lowe's Teflon policy on managers - he couldn't get a single one to stick around.

Like most fans I was delighted to attract Burley. His record with Ipswich boded well; a promotion followed by European qualification for a provincial club, not dissimilar to our own, epitomised by pacey, attacking football appeared attractive.

It would certainly be in stark contrast to our most recent successful manager, the other Scotsman, who employed a high work ethic, absolute fitness and defensive expediency to grind out results.

For someone like me, raised on a diet of Ball, Keegan, Channon, Worthington, Moran and their peers, the very idea of playing open, flowing football was and remains the Holy Grail. Accepting the occasional 5-4 reverse is simply part of the understood cost of seeing a team attack in numbers and score with frequency.

I've said before and I don't mind admitting again, that I would pay money to watch Arsenal exemplify this approach; treating the ball like a returning absent lover, and not a well-worn punch bag. Ask any Arsenal fan which team they would prefer to watch, Wenger's or Graham's, and I suspect the result would be unanimous.

But Burley's neglect of his defence this season at the expense of 'silky football' could and perhaps should now prove his undoing. To my mind, he has displayed a naivety unworthy of a man in his position, any management position in fact.

Burley has been undone by his failure to build a stable back four during the summer, compounded by the unfortunate (but eminently predictable) injuries to Claus Lundekvam and Darren Powell. Losing Gareth Bale was inevitable, Chris Baird predictable and Martin Cranie preventable.

Failing to replace them in time for the start of the season is, frankly, unforgivable. Had we made no signings at all, despite the sums raised from the aforementioned, one could excuse Burley for suffering, like the rest of us, from our financial position.

But Burley's transfers seemed to telegraph his intent, from the moment Youseff Safri became our first signing of the summer, to the recent addition of Jason Euell. All told, we now have eleven midfielders in our squad, and bar Jhon Viafara and the unfortunate Jermaine Wright, they are all playmakers, silky footballers, not a hard tackling ball-winner among them.

Were we in the Champion's League, we could no doubt match Lyons or Porto for one-touch passing. Sadly, I can imagine the Scunthorpe team-talk now, and it revolves around the phrase 'they don't like it up 'em' - and ain't that the truth, we don't!

Bringing in an entire new defence since the start of the season (six defenders thus far and counting) might have redeemed Burley in some eyes. Not mine. While Burley's busy sliding the bolt, I'm too busy watching horses disappearing in all directions across the South Downs.

We can't un-concede the TWENTY ONE (yes I put that in capitals in case you imagine some vide-printer style typo) goals we have conceded in just nine games. It's bordering on farcical, only no-one is laughing.

But of all the sins of George Burley, by far the most cardinal is his insistence that Jermaine Wright is a 'total footballer' capable of excellence in any position on the park. I have no truck with Wright. He is, if nothing, a hard-working, uncomplaining member of the team who simply does as asked.

But a left back he is not, and Burley's decision to bring him on when trailing by one goal against Preston must surely have contributed to the final tally, worthy of the Tongan rugby team.

Regardless of Burley's footballing knowledge, his standing is surely now wounded, and mortally in my view. In nine games, we have ridden our defensive luck like a drunken cowboy. Beating Stoke was pure good fortune.

Better finishing would have seen us buried - like we were at Deepdale, where a team with but one goal to their name at home, quintupled their tally in 90 minutes of madness.

No, George, the time for 'blending and building' is long gone. Excuses have worn thinner than Bobby Charlton's hair. It's time for you to get on your bike.