Leicester double leaves Sunderland staring into abyss

score in nine of their last 10 matches. This is a club being hollowed out from the inside, a team with no ideas, no inspiration, and now eight points adrift of safety, no hope.

For Moyes, assailed by accusations of sexism in recent days, this was a strong case for being removed from his job by more conventional means.

Having spent much of the week on the defensive, it was fitting that he sent his team out to spoil, with four central midfielders clogging the centre like a hairball; including captain Lee Cattermole, returning after six months out injured.

But Sunderland were competing, without looking like scoring. While Riyad Mahrez struggled to get the ball in threatening areas, Jermain Defoe struggled to get the ball at all. Defoe is a fiercely clever striker, but time after time he made a smart run only to see the ball passed sideways. The frustration in his expression was that of a man with a fork in his top pocket, watching in exasperation as his companions eat spaghetti with their hands.

Occasionally, Sunderland could get the full-backs forward and roll the dice. A run of corners had Sunderland’s masochistic travelling fans out their seats applauding in encouragement. But Shakespeare’s half-time soliloquy clearly had an effect. Leicester emerged for the second half looking several degrees sharper, raising the tempo and forcing Sunderland deeper.

Here was where the game was won and lost. On the hour, Shakespeare laid his cards on the table, introducing Islam Slimani and Marc Albrighton. Moyes, meanwhile, kept his hands in his pockets. With 20 minutes to go, both substitutes combined to put Leicester ahead, Albrighton’s cross met by the head of Slimani with Lamina Koné’s aerial challenge carrying all the enthusiasm of the third shepherd in a child’s nativity play.

Ten minutes too late, Moyes brought on Victor Anichebe, who hit the post with a sharp left-footed shot. But once you inject the serum of defeat into a team already addicted to it, the outcome becomes inevitable. Sunderland were going to lose. They knew it, and so did everyone else.

So, minutes later, did Billy Jones, who slipped in his own half and was devoured by a sprinting Albrighton. His cross was slammed home by Jamie Vardy, and as the stadium erupted the camera zoomed in on Moyes, sucking his teeth, pondering the tactical masterstroke that would swing the contest his way. After a moment’s thought, he brought on Darron Gibson.

“I thought it was quite a scrappy game,” Shakespeare said. “Sometimes as a manager, you make substitutions for a positive reason. Sometimes you make them to shore the game up. I’m really pleased with their impact.”

For Moyes, a week that began with scorn continues in the same vein. “You’re getting slapped in the morning,” the Leicester fans gleefully sang as the goals rained in. When a proud club become a punchline, something has gone very badly wrong.