Mourinho – The Special One (Eye)

Jose Mourinho, the self-acclaimed ‘Special One’, is back in English football. Most of us will welcome him as he provides some much-needed spice, plus a serious challenge to the Manchester duopoly, in the post-Ferguson Premier League. His platinum-plated arrogance both rankles and amuses in equal measure.

His CV is pretty impressive with success in his native Portugal, Italy and of course in his previous incarnation at Stamford Bridge. He is in select company, having won The Champions League with two different clubs and domestic titles in four different countries. Real Madrid may be a slight blot but he did squeeze in a Copa del Rey in his first season and took away Barcelona’s grip on La Liga in his second. As failures go that is not a calamity.

So there is little doubt he is good at his job, ask Ibrahimovic, the Swedish behemoth fawns on his managerial powers, as revealed in his modestly, intriguingly entitled autobiography ‘I am Zlatan Ibrahimovic’ “That guy says whatever he wants. I like him. He’s the leader of his army.” He makes his teams difficult to beat and sometimes difficult to watch but Chelsea fans would, like most others, choose substance over style. Ask any Arsenal fan.

But there is the small matter of his whingeing, which materialised after Bayern Munich's recent squeaky, slightly fortuitous Super Cup win. Jose bleated about “this is my history with  Uefa for a long, long time” and how the devils incarnate have been cooking up trouble to undermine Mourinho. Poor old Jose has had to contend with this endless campaign to do him down. Well Uefa may not be everybody’s cup of tea or anybody’s favourite governing body for European football but not even Platini's henchmen would stoop that low.

No this is just another example of the persecution complex that most leading managers employ to rally their troops. It's us against the rest of the world, let's gather round and batten down the hatches. The enemy are everywhere, we are surrounded. Mourinho also employs the trait of all successful club managers, Ferguson & Wenger pre-2005, that of partial vision whereby one develops an incredible capacity to view things through one eye.

That single rather squint eye only sees selective moments from the game and also distorts anything outside that view. The result is that any loss is the fault of the officials, referees, assistant referees, technology, FA, UEFA - the usual suspects. You will never hear any admission of failure or culpability laid at the feet of the team or woe betide, the manager. This is an attitude akin to that of a playground 'it's not my fault, sir it was that horrible big boy Webb. He's a cheat.' Alright Jose, now be a good boy, sit back down at your desk and try not to throw those toys out of the pram again.

The Ashes 2013 - England win The Crying Games

 It has not been an epic Ashes.  The drama of Trent Bridge  promised  a captivating, enthralling series to rival 2005 with the Aussies getting tantalisingly close to a thrilling turnaround victory, prompted by the extraordinary test debut innings of the smiling, beguiling teenager Ashton Agar. Even his name sounds like a film star’s nom de plume – he goes straight into the Gone with the Wind as deputy to C. Gable. If ever an Australian was going to win over the English public this good-looking, naïve charmer was the man. I have never been so disappointed to see an opposition player get out when he finally fell on his elegant sword, on 98. We also had the additional spicy ruckus caused by another fresh-faced youth, Stuart Broad. Broad’s inability to detect the ball being smashed off the centre of his bat straight to first slip via the keeper’s gloves, and Aleem Dar’s sudden blindness. This match had all the elements – controversy, charm, charisma, pulsating cut and thrust leading to a fitting denouement. The end of the final innings was as thrilling when the final pair added 65 and when Haddin was caught behind within touching distance of the target, it was all to be decided by everybody’s favourite referral system DRS.

An electrifying series was in the offing but it did not materialise as none of the subsequent games contained the same excitement or tension of that first match. Lord’s was embarrassingly easy for England as the Aussies showed the backbone of a worm in a pathetic first innings display, after Rogers was somehow felled by Swann’s very impressive impersonation of a Simon Kerrigan delivery, a looping full toss which was drifting high wide and not particularly handsome. The most amazing aspect of this was that Rogers did not review the decision as the Aussies had decided to only review those that were plumb LBWs as pioneered by Shane Watson. Such village cricket was then put into perspective by Root’s imperious 180, another young man who captured our admiration. Like Agar and unlike so many of his peers, Root smiles and clearly loves playing cricket at the highest level, which is a striking contrast to the standard sullen grumpiness that seems to be the norm.

Not sure how his angelic looks inspired the pantomime villain, David Warner to give him a clout in a club even before the Ashes had started but Warner’s return to the fold provided the boo-boys with plenty of material. Warner’s exile preceded the removal of Mickey Arthur, the slightly hapless South African coach of Australia. Surely, Arthur would have been better suited to leading England aka South Africa B. New coach Darren Lehmann or Boof as he is affectionately known (and will be forever after his broadside at our Stuart) decided to weigh into the Broad debate and implored the Australian crowds to send him home blubbing from the forthcoming return series starting in Brisbane in November. At least the authorities do not have to waste any expenditure on those on-field fireworks that are meant to ignite the atmosphere.

Talking of pyrotechnics, Old Trafford lived up to Manchester’s reputation for moisture and was literally a damp squib.  Australia cursed their misfortune as the only real rain that had fallen in the previous few months in a surprisingly hot, dry English summer, made it to the North West for the last day to rescue England as they teetered on the brink at 27-3, chasing an implausible 300 odd after saving the follow-on, courtesy of another Australian failure with DRS when not reviewing a Pietersen LBW which was nailed on and of course KP then struck an important match-saving century. Just as England were gasping for air the heavens opened and did not relent until it was too late for Clarke and he shook hands with Captain Cook and the Ashes were going nowhere.

Durham was hosting its first ever Ashes Test Match and did everyone proud with a gripping match, the second best of the series. Australia were in command until Ian Bell continued a rather handy knack of notching a century whilst all around him were losing their heads, and wickets. Australia still had a sniff and had set off with good intent, only to be blown away by baby-faced assassin, Lehmann’s favourite guy, S. Broad. Poised on 168-2 with just over a hundred required Stuart produced the best bowling spell of the series, blowing away the Aussie batsmen as if they were matchstick men, ending with a  devastating spell of 6-20, it was enough to make a grown man cry, Darren kindly take note.

So on to the Oval, that arena which has seemingly been purpose-built to host the most dramatic of climaxes to the really big series. With the aid of some imaginative captaincy, which overcame a few weather delays (as Kennington did a passable impression of Manchester) and some laboriously painful batting by England, which suggested that timeless tests had been re-introduced by the ICC without anyone knowing. The last day’s menu was ‘carrot au dangle’ courtesy of Masterchef Clarke served on a feather bed of a pitch for England’s Cook. This delicious meal was coming to the boil nicely, helped by some KP sauce and a slice of Trott-er when the inevitable happened. It was time for the Idiotic Cretinous Clowns aka the ICC to intervene. Four overs were left, 21 runs required in the dwindling light on a bright summer’s evening in South London as the rules and regulations struck. Hopeless umpires now became helpless umpires as the light meter readings determined the game to be cut short, strangled just as the juiciest of ends was in sight.

Even mild-mannered and overall good egg, Jonathan Agnew, BBC’s cricket correspondent, was apoplectic with rage over this ridiculous ending to the series, ‘an absolute shambles’ was his bitter conclusion. So when Aggers starts doing his impression of a hybrid of Warner and Lehmann at their most venomous, you know that everything in the world is not right. For a game that has to encourage people to spend prodigious amounts of money to watch the lamest of finishes we are at home to Incompetent Crass Clots. To cap it off, there was the after-show party where the England players gathered near the square under the cover of darkness, no need for light meters now and ‘relieved themselves’ which proved to be utterly shocking to the shy, sensitive Aussies such as seasoned cricket writer, Malcolm Conn. The meekness of the apology from ECB matched some of the most mealy-mouthed utterances of recent years. For all you shy, retiring Ockers out there look away now as this whole escapade was surely taking the piss. So bring on Brisbane in November for more tears at bedtime.