JOSE: WHERE ARE YOU?
In a highly newsworthy month here in Thailand: an air crash, the anniversary of a military coup and the country’s cyber sheriff shooting himself in the foot, I’m ashamed to admit, Khun Worathep’s mind was halfway round the world with Jose Mourinho's ‘resignation’ as manager of Chelsea. Ladies and gentlemen, the ‘Special One’ has left the building.
Did he jump or was he pushed from the top floor of the Chelsea FC Hotel, Plaza and and car boot sale complex? Either way, he was lucky to walk away alive: lesser 'immortals' that have crossed paths with the Ruskies in London layely have been shipped home in lead-lined boxes.
A shot of anti-depressants: I re-run the nail-biting ‘first’ championship campaign, or at least the ‘first’ in my life time. By the 32nd game of the season, however, the anti-depressants have worn off and I’m starting to mull the state of the (once) glorious game.
These days, English Premier League football is as much about what happens ‘off’ the pitch as it is about what 22 big, hairy guys kicking a bag of wind do ‘on’ the pitch. But, you can bet your last razor blade, in this multi-squillion pound industry, the hair is slicked back with gel endorsements by the bucket-load. The modern EPL has more zany multi-zillionaire personalities than Bangkok Paragon when Saturday comes. Where there are personalities, you can be sure the paranoia and politics are never far behind, especially when you thrown in a KGB element. The infighting, back biting and aerobic allegiances of the EPL make the current Thai political situation look like a summer softball camp on Koh Chang.
Thanks to a 25-hour-day, eight-day-week (25/8) global media blanket, you can’t help get caught up in the hype. Frankly speaking, the sight of two managers fighting it out on the touchline is often more entertaining than the game. It reminds me of the old joke: “I went to the big fight the other night – a football match broke out.” Jose, for his stubborn old sins, received more red cards than some of his players. He even watched a few games on the dressing room telly; unimpressed with the designated (but definitely not ‘chosen’) officials for the fixture.
While the arrogant, cocky, self-appointed “Special One’ of God’s favourite game may have towel-whipped an unfair share of opposing fans, managers, referees and FA officials with his post-match tongue lashings, his cool, calculated, decisive, management brilliance filled a trophy cabinet at Stamford Bridge that, for over half a century contained little more than a couple of mops and a rusty old FA Cup from thirty years ago, that the cleaning lady, who still remembers the last championship title, uses as a bucket.
Not even the most diehard Chelski fans would deny that Ruben-esque amounts of Roubles can, of course, buy the best football players at the bazaar. It can be argued, however, that the task of creating some on-the-pitch egalitarianism (teamwork = trophies) out of a bunch of over-paid, over-inflated, over-everything egos, requires top-notch man-management skills. Maybe, just maybe, having a bigger ego that than everyone else put together, actually helped Mr Mourinho shape his season-winning squads.
Anyway, I’ve just watched the match against Man United; the first without our talisman. You can probably tell I’m drunk, very drunk. I remember lying on my coach, grasping my Jathukam Ramathep amulet when Jon Obi Mikel got red-carded. I almost strangled myself with it when John Terry was given his marching orders. But I only fully realised the power of the charm around my neck when, one by one, the rest of the Chelsea players, in an obvious thumbs down to the oligarch, got themselves sent off: down but defiant and off for one last communal ‘early bath’ with the boss. And there I was, me, Worathep, in the tub with the entire Chelsea squad, scrubbing the former manager’s back with a blue and white loofa. Who’d have thought Andre Shevchenko would have such a small …
I’m jerked awake by Mrs na Banglampu just in time to catch the second goal, but just too late to stop me siphoning the evening’s ale all over the sofa. I’m awake … and wet … and Jose has gone.
There’ll be no more bottles of the best wine with Sir Alex; no more ‘words’ with Wegner; no more ball-boy belligerence for Benitez. The EPL soap opera has lost its leading man. Is there anyone large enough to fill the football boots of the little big man from Portugal, or will the squad of players he moulded in his own image simply f … f… f…fade away? Good luck, Jose: Wherever You Are – as long as it’s not Spurs, or heaven forbid ... nah never ...
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