Eight years ago I bought a TV: a cheap LCD panel effort. Manufactured in Germany by some unknown quantity, I fully expected it to blow itself out within the year.

It didn’t. Year after year went by and, as friends and family made room for the latest and greatest in lounge entertainment, I was stuck with my big German singular HDMI port monolithic pixel-pusher.

We stared at one another nightly, as the unwelcome familiarity with it faults and failings bred utter contempt. I was left waiting for it to break so I could justify the outlay on a new, modernised and improved version, but it mocked me with it’s resilience. I freely let my son run riot, but even sprawling peanut-butter hands and relentless toy hammer sessions failed to break it’s resolve. It was rubbish, but not quite rubbish enough.

This is now how I see my Fantasy Premier League squad.

Having preserved my Wildcard over the international break, it’s transformed from a bonus and benefit, to a method of torture. I’m left waiting for the bottom to fall out of my team so I can find reason to scrap it and start again. However, while it appears to be dangling on the precipice of red arrows, it hasn’t quite descended into a state of despair.

However, I know full well I can do better. David De Gea is a rose amongst inexperienced thorns, Curtis Davies and Steven Caulker seem unlikely to wash their sheets for weeks and I’m pretty sure Nacer Chadli translates to “hasty knee jerk” in Hebrew. Even owning Jordan Mutch is not quite enough to push me over the edge. Jordan Mutch.

Added to this, I’ve doubts over Aaron Ramsey and Wayne Rooney as the big hitters in their respective sides – tactical tweaks appear to have dampened their goalscoring somewhat.

It’s all bad, but it’s not quite bad enough.

I finally got rid of that TV last week. I don’t know if it finally gave up the ghost (on the screen) but I assumed that three months in a damp storage container would have done trick. In my head, that “allowed” me to treat myself to a refresh.

The same weekend, I was very close to approaching my squad in a similar ruthless fashion. I hovered tantalisingly over the button, trying to convince myself that both Ramsey and Rooney would falter and that Graziano Pelle and Angel Di Maria are essential targets that would spank my hesitant hide.

That may well be the case. This weekend I’ll know whether my squad should have gone the same way as my robust Bavarian goggle-box.