José Mourinho, the man, the myth, the legend
José Mourinho, the celebrated manager of Chelsea Football Club, tells Mick Brown why it is absurd to think footballers are important and that he talks to God about everything except the beautiful game
"I think," José Mourinho says, "I have a problem, which is I'm getting better at everything related to my job. There has been evolution in many areas - the way I read the game; the way I prepare the game; the way I train; the methodology … I feel better and better. But there is one point where I cannot change: when I face the media, I am never a hypocrite."
Statistically speaking, Chelsea's Mourinho is the most successful club manager in world football. He has won the league titles in each of the four countries where he has managed - his native Portugal, Italy, Spain and England (where it looks like he'll do so again this season). He has won the Champions League twice. But that, of course, is only the half of it. Mourinho is - arguably - also the most divisive manager in football. There is no manager more likely to ignite the ire of rival fans. The jousting with referees and the English Football Association, the press-conference wind-ups, the touchline sulks - never mind the football, watching Mourinho is almost a spectator sport in itself.
In a cavernous studio in south London, Mourinho has spent the past two hours being photographed in a variety of sport-casual clothing, and climbing in and out of a Jaguar sports car. He is a stylish, but determinedly conservative, dresser, who says he takes little interest in clothes, and whose priority is comfort rather than fashion.
His own wardrobe is invariably a hushed medley of blacks, greys and dark blues. He is not a citrus-coloured-jumper kind of guy. He has discharged these photo-shoot duties uncomplainingly, in a businesslike fashion, neither smiling nor scowling, rather wearing an expression of inscrutability so familiar that it almost merits its own adjective, Mourinho-esque. Not even being "photo-bombed" by star striker Didier Drogba, who has wandered in from an adjacent studio, where he is fulfilling his own promotional obligations, can throw Mourinho off his stride.
When, at the end of the session, everyone gathers round a laptop to examine the photographs, all eyes look expectantly to Mourinho for his verdict.
"Not bad," he says. Not bad? Does this mean "excellent", "terrible" or simply, as he says, "not bad"? It is impossible to tell.
Now he is seated on a sofa in the studio canteen, his two agents - English and Portuguese - within hailing distance. An assortment of cakes and sandwiches and a bottle of water have been placed on the table in front of him. They will remain untouched.
