D Reilly

The rise and fall of Jose Mourinho

If we were to discover Jose Mourinho lately fantasised during press conferences about mowing down the assembled hacks in a hail of semi-automatic gunfire while yelling at the top of his voice “SAY HELLO TO MY LEETLE FRIEND”, I think, on the whole, we’d understand. His rise, like that of the similarly arriviste Tony Montana in Scarface, has been both meteoric and, in its own way, violent, but now the white hot charisma that defined and propelled it seems very obviously to have burnt itself out. It must be hard on him.

Mourinho’s arrival on the global consciousness in a shimmering aura of Latin arrogance back in 2004, all Hollywood good-looks and hair gel, was scintillating. Middle-stage Mourinho was all conquering, winning the football leagues in England, Italy and Spain, not to mention two Champions League titles. But now – prematurely, given he is only 55 – it seems we are abruptly into late stage Mourinho and no one likes it very much, least of all the man himself. What once came so easily now appears difficult. What once seemed fresh is now tired. His most recent teams – manifestations, remember, of himself – have been peopled by bored-looking players, playing mainly dull and disjointed football. Crucially, and increasingly, they keep losing. How hard, then, the weekly press conferences must be in which he is challenged to explain to the world that which he surely doesn’t really understand himself: why his winning touch has deserted him. Under these circumstances we can forgive, can’t we, the odd flounce?

By comparing Mourinho to the fictional Tony Montana I’m not for a moment suggesting the Manchester United manager is dealing with the collapse of his potency as a force in the game by locking himself away in a room with only a few kilograms of cocaine for company.

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