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.