It’s not often I feel qualified to write about the beautiful game.
I usually shy (another term for a throw-in I believe) away from talking about football when it comes up in conversation and cannot get too excited when folk start dissecting the game and recklessly predict how close the race for second place in the Scottish Premier League will be next season.
Two years covering the Highland League – I was there when the mighty Forres Mechanics captured the 2004/05 North of Scotland Cup – provided more than enough high octane on pitch action to last a lifetime.
So I’m more a fan of Marino – Hall of Fame NFL quarterback Dan – than I am of Mourinho.
Speaking of wee Jose, I was watching BBC Breakfast with the sound off one day when the Manchester United manager appeared on screen.
He looked like a Gerry Anderson Thunderbird puppet with the strings cut.
I think his team had won the match, but looking at his deadpan fizzog you couldn’t really tell if they had won, lost, drawn or had been hung and quartered.
He looked like a man suffering from terminal constipation.
Total disinterest would not be a strong enough term to describe his complete lack of engagement with the poor guy interviewing him.
I felt like grabbing him by his designer lapels and giving him a bloody good shake.
“You’re the head honcho of one of the biggest football clubs on the planet Jose,” I would tell him. “For God’s sake crack a grin.”
On further investigation he’s not alone.
Most of the managers these days look like they’ve dropped a heroic dose of Thorazine before they face the TV cameras.