And breathe
Wherever you rank Jose Mourinho in the levels upon levels of Twat Jenga at Manchester United, his ultimate departure comes as something of a sweet release. The atmosphere around Old Trafford had reached such a level of toxicity that something had to give – and it was always going to be the Portuguese. In a special and unique heap of self-serving bastards, Jose was simply the easiest block to remove.
It was time. In fact, it was overdue. The multilayered shenanigans above, below and around the Spiteful One became unbearably tiresome. Even the messiest amongst us, who essentially live for such drama, grew tired of the saturation of shithousery. Whereas the infamous Bayern Munich side of the 1990s were referred to as ‘FC Hollywood’, the current United lot are Hollyoaks After Hours at best.
It’s just layer after layer of self-serving cuntitude – from parasitic owners, through boardroom blaggers, via corporate whores, to prima donna players. Indeed if expert arse-covering was rewarded in silverware, dear old Jose would be furiously waving every one of his fingers and toes – without the indignity of including the Community fucking Shield. All in all, Mourinho was just another prick in the wall.
That’s not to ignore the manager’s own failures and fuckery. As much as modern United are a multi-tiered cake of turds, Mourinho was the piss-glazed cherry on top. His second and third seasons were the very epitome of one step forward and two steps back. As for the attritional brand of football, it was everything you’d expect from a win-at-all-costs merchant. Except without the winning.
It cannot be stressed enough how much of a joy vacuum Mourinho became. Whether due to the sheer magnitude of the job at hand, the unhelpful dynamics within the club, or a private self-awareness of his own waning powers, he was intent on emanating misery. Even sparks of triumph were greeted with defiance and told-you-so scowls. He flashed his handsome smile once, in a joke about translation.
Everything is relative and Jose’s gripes are legitimate to a point. He was essentially charged with driving the world’s most expensive clown car, and in that respect, he could never compete with Pep Guardiola. The Catalan has been afforded every facility, support and resource to fulfil his vision and prove he is the best; Mourinho’s imperfections were only magnified by truculence and over-clever idiocy.
But take City out of the equation and Mourinho is shown up. It may seem like fuzzy logic when measuring success by the only metric that really counts in actual trophies, but a potless Jurgen Klopp and Mauricio Pochettino have clearly overtaken his United in terms of style, plan, focus, cohesion and future prospects – all with markedly less resource. Even Sarri’s Chelsea and Emery’s Arsenal look more complete.
The slow death started in August, when Mourinho was neither backed nor sacked, and instead left to blacken and spoil. He desperately needed defenders to replace the defenders he’d previously bought to replace the defenders he was still playing. The club ultimately decided that their tactic of throwing enough shit at a wall until something sticks could be continued without such an outwardly insolent mardarse.
The fact that Ed Woodward reportedly sought counsel from the players who stopped playing for Mourinho about their manager’s future at the club tells you all you need to know. It may be true that, in the end, no Jose was better than a bad Jose, but United are still a towering mess. Whether it’s Ole Gunnar Solskjær in the short term, or Pochettino in the longer term, any incoming manager should be bricking it.
