“We have to leave this story because we have some breaking news…Jose Mourinho has been sacked by mutual consent.” And that, until just now, was my radio afternoon. “Martin Keown, you’ve never played for Mourinho – tell us all about the man” and so on and on and on. When someone mentioned that David Mellor might be on in a moment, presumably for some “red hot soccer chat”, it was time to listen to music instead.
Even in managerial death, Mourinho dominates the airwaves. It’s worse than the news about Princess Di – well, not quite – but if you were to say to me that there would be a minute’s silence at all Premier League games this weekend, I’d believe you, honest.
I did, at first, believe all the “breath of fresh air” bullshit about the sacked one because he seemed genuinely different. There is a line between arrogance and parody and for a time Mourinho straddled it with ease, but this season has just been an embarrassment. He has been more outrageous than ever, but for most of the time his manner has been of the plate-spinner watching his plates fall to the floor one by one. It’s been carnage.
We will find out what has really happened, probably quite soon, when one of his former players or an unnamed official brief their favourite journalist. We will discover, for example, to whom he was referring when he referred to “betrayal”. And saddest of all, some people will actually care.
I saw Chelsea lose to Leicester this week and they were hopeless. Plenty of players were clearly not playing for the manager, there was no hunger in the side, like Vardy provided for the Foxes, and you could see they were going through the motions. I saw a team of moderate foreign journeymen, including Barcelona cast offs, with no heart. No youngsters from the so called famed academy that has swept all before it in recent years have got near regular first team appearances. The only home grown talent in the squad is that well known youngster John Terry.
Chelsea are far from being the only dysfunctional billionaire plaything. Even the so called Premier League “minnows” of Leicester and Bournemouth are anything but “minnows” when you cut through the crap and see where the money is really is coming from. I suppose that at least with Chelsea, you know for sure the club is doped quite openly by a Russian billionaire. With the rest, it’s never quite so clear.
The Special One is dead (in football terms), long live the Special One. Who’s next? Hiddinck? Rodgers? Guardiola? Darrell Clarke? Do you know what? I don’t care. Whoever he is will get an infinite chequebook and will be sacked once things go tits up.
This is the modern world, isn’t it, and football still continues to eat itself still further.
