As an almost qualified clinical psychiatrist (I read a book about Freud in 1984), I have chosen, as my most recent case study, the person hereafter and forthwith to be referred to, in order to keep professional standards up and personal expenses down, as ‘Jose Morinho’. Even though his real name is ‘client X’.

Mr Morinho was always what is euphemistically called ‘special’. As in ‘special needs’, ‘special consideration’, ‘special requirements’. He showed sufficient levels of self-awareness to make everyone aware that, psychologically, all was not strictly ‘normal’ within that Portuguese mind. But he came here, he was successful and we mistakenly accepted his use of the term ‘The Special One’ as some form of conceit, of trumpet-blowing. Because like so many with his condition, he has periods of lucidity and tranquility when all does indeed seem ‘normal’. These periods are know, in psychiatric terminology, as ‘when he’s winning’. Inevitably, when this period reaches some kind of change or transition, the patient’s underlying condition becomes manifestly apparent.

So he left Chelsea after a while and took his increasing levels of paranoia over to first Milan and then to Madrid. Where pretty much the same effect was noted. Massive mood swings of a truly bi-polar nature, often induced with merely one kick of a football. Or of someone’s shin.

At which point he returned to Chelsea, upped his medication and tried once more to appear normal but still special. Which was going fairly poorly and then exploded into ‘Doctor-gate’. When Jose poured all his scorn, venom and blame for all of his team’s woes on the fact that a team doctor had run onto the pitch to tend a wounded player. In the resulting ‘shit-hitting-fannage’ that occurred, Mr Morinho left Chelsea once more and changed his ‘shrink’ to one recommended by Arsene Wenger. A head-doctor who could train the mind to only see what it wanted to see and ensure a happy place.

So Jose moved to Manchester. Sadly, this only added to his paranoia as the ‘world’s biggest football club’ continued to play shit even with all his specialness. He chose to vent on the referees, on the Football Association, on crop circles, black holes, Elvis’ ghost, the Ayatollah, anything rather than accept any responsibility for his teams failings.

And that’s where we find Mr Morinho today. In the midst of an all-encompassing paranoid crisis, sitting in a padded physio’s room at Old Trafford, waiting for the men in white coats to inject him with something that might make him a little more normal, and a lot less special.

Footnote: there has been no merit given to hypothesis involving the deprivation of breast-feeding from an early age of his life. Despite those photos that emerged of Jose with Eva Carneiro.

Happy Thursday

Dr Conway
xxxx