When Leicester City beat Chelsea on Monday night the end was indeed nigh for Jose. I spent the following three days checking the BBC website, refreshing the football section every couple of hours for the inevitable. Then yesterday, in between such refreshings I received ‘the news’ from Spurs Paul in a text. Jose gone. Nothing further was required. No reasons, no qualifications, nothing needed. Such was the inevitability. And for once, I agreed with Abramovich’s decision. In fact only wondered why it had taken so long to come about. He’s not renowned for his patience nor hesitant disposition.

So Morinho left Chelsea ‘by mutual consent’. With the footprint of a Russian size 9 in the small of his back. Actually it was probably a Gucci Loafer print. Can’t imagine Roman would wear Russian footwear. Any more than he’d have cabbage soup for breakfast.

And I come to bury Jose, not praise him.

But…

The man is a genius. There’s no doubt about it. When it comes to football, he is almost in a class of his own. When he won the Champions League with lowly, virtually impoverished Porto, his star was marked. He then led Chelsea to levels they would never have reached, for all Abramovich’s billions. But they failed to win the Champions League. A trophy hardly any teams ever win, but when you’re as rich as Roman, you want it all.

He left Chelsea and took Inter Milan on a winning spree which indeed included the Champions League. Then he went to Real Madrid where his successes didn’t include that trophy, and in Madrid they’re rather unforgiving.

Morinho gives you two great years. Then implodes. During those two years his team will reach unprecedented heights of glory and victory. But then…

Its almost as if the pressure of expectation, coupled with the impatience of owners, conspires to unhinge his volatile Portuguese psyche. Which manifests itself by playing the blame game. Which is when everyone else starts to get pissed off with his antics.

He blames the ref for his team’s failures. He sees persecution by officials, conspiracies by ball-boys, he even attacked his own team doctor for going onto the pitch. And finally, on Monday night, in perhaps his most suicidal act, he blamed his own players for betraying him. Which in a way they had. How can you otherwise account for Eden Hazard, the star of the league last year, becoming a virtual invisible nobody? Diego Costa turned from last year’s thuggish goal-machine into just plain thug. Oscar has been shown the kind of Kryptonite that takes away all his Brazilianness and Fabregas won’t play.

Obviously, I sincerely hope that Chelsea continue to flounder under their new caretaker manager, Gus Hiddink. I love to watch them squirm. Would love to see them fighting Aston Villa and Bournemouth in a relegation battle. But I reckon under a new boss those players will once again find their inner superstars and perform to previous standards. Bastards.

Happy Friday, Jose, at least you won’t be hungry.

A xxxx