The Australian male Bowerbird is a strange creature. He decorates his nest with all manner of items, bright in colour and gaudy to the eye. Seeing pictures of the heaps of blue plastic pieces that surround his abode might lead one to ask the question why?
The answer is as simple as it is timeless. To attract the female of his species and encourage her to allow him to mate. In adorning his nest with ‘bling’ he is saying that his genes are those she should want to join with her own to ensure that their offspring are as well skilled in the art of seduction as he evidently is. Bowerbirds tend to have individual decorative tastes all of their own too. Some arrange seeds and pieces of glass into detailed patterns while others prefer a more lurid amalgamation of objects of a glossy hue. But it is all bird ego really and as I mentioned, it sends a message not only to the female but also to other males that I am ‘the’ Bowerbird, approach me at your peril for I am the very definition and epitome of male Bowerbirdness and I am an avian sex god.
For the human equivalent we may consider many of today’s more lurid ‘personalities’ but for the footballing Bowerbird perhaps our awed gaze should fall upon non other than Jose Mourinho. The small body, the unshaven visage and the sardonic, not to say smug look that he wears as a kind of badge of accomplishment, show that he has honed his media personality through years of staring at himself in the mirror, probably striking arrogant, yet confident poses and imagining how simply marvellous he must look to us mere mortals, permitted to gaze upon him through the TV screen. If you look up Narcissism in the dictionary, the name Mourinho really should appear next to it.
Unlike the Bowerbird though Mourinho is not trying to attract a mate, nor are the goods he puts on show the result of his endeavours. His baubles are the glittering array of stars he has assembled, purchased by an elusive man with lots of mysterious money. We have given him the name of Oligarch, whatever that means.
But Mourinho is not content. Like the Bowerbird he craves attention but is a lot less charming and discriminatory about it. Having previously insulted our great club in every way he could, he has been defeated in his quest for domination by yet another pile of money, this time realised from beneath the ground, in the shape of the owner of Man City. Let us for a moment consider just what these two owners have done for both the country they compete in and the game that their financial clout has virtually dominated since their arrival.
Ok, that moment didn’t take long did it as they have done nothing except perhaps pour money into the hands of property magnates, yacht outfitters and Chelsea boutique owners to say nothing of tattooed footballers and sadly, John Terry.
Somehow Pellegrini has become the more acceptable face of financial doping though. If he wins or loses, at least he does so with a degree of sporting grace unthought of in West London. Here, every victory is just another display of Mourinho’s obvious superiority. How could we ever doubt it? The sardonic raised eyebrow, the sickening smirk, the faux confidence that exudes from every pore of his little body is only compounded by the bile that involuntarily spills forth whenever a microphone is produced.
For him the victory means more than the 3 points. It represents an unmissable opportunity to gloat and insult his opponents and the welcome chance to grind their faces in that defeat. Yes, he is a physically small man and such men can often carry the resentment of that around like a weight, so when they defeat a bigger man, they have to remind everybody of that fact incessantly.
Of course, we now fully expect the never-ending stream of personal insults that he has seen fit to heap upon our manager, our club and us. But, when his team loses, it is them and not him that succumbed to defeat. He, like a modern day psychopathic Pontius Pilate, stands before the same camera that loved him the week before, washes his hands of his players and belittles them. He insults them as if they have somehow proved inadequate when it came to following his instructions.
While at Real Madrid, with one of the most expensively assembled squads in footballing history he had plenty of opportunities to taste defeat. In response to a familiar beating at the hands of Barcelona when he was out thought and out fought, his idea of a dignified response response was to attempt to gouge the opposition assistant manager’s eyeball from its socket. But if you take another look you will see the true Mourinho in the moments after the assault. His cowering looks of feigned innocence tell you all you need to know about him and you just know that, in a sticky situation, the last person you would want next to you would be him. Not that he would be there anyway. He will have gone over to the enemy and sold you out.
So, now we are faced with another season of the press simperingly grovelling before his feet, laughing nervously at his pronouncements and drooling as the pearls of self aggrandisement that dribble from lips like acid drops. He, like the Bowerbird, has the baubles he wants now. Mourinho’s players, bought at huge expense with the money of an Oligarch, whatever that means.
We also have the unfortunate return of Drogba, one of the most dishonest players ever to dishonour the game. A man whose cheating had got so bad that children at his son’s school used to constantly fall over in mimicry of this truly ghastly man. He is back to cheat, con and be a continuing blight on the game for another year at least, as a bauble in the glittering array outside Mourinho’s nest.
How can anybody except the few thousand that attend the Chelsea games and of course the adoring sheep of the press wish for anything other than his abject failure and early departure of both of them from these shores. This time for good.
Written by Adam