Credit where it’s due. You would’ve left me incredulous had you told me on Monday that Tottenham’s next outing would be even more lifeless and uninspiring than it was against Everton. To that end, Mourinho and his team have pulled the rabbit out of the hat tonight. They’ve performed this miracle flying straight in the face of implausibility, maybe even impossibility. That’s where the praise, if you can call it that, ends.
I have now endured five Spurs games since the restart. Two wins, two draws and a loss. Goals scored: five. Goals conceded: four. Clean sheets: three. On the surface, this doesn’t paint that bad a picture. A solid effort if not slightly underwhelming. The problem is that I’d rather watch the paint on this fictitious picture dry than another ninety (or in today’s case, 102) minutes of this team playing football. These five games have been enough for me to (re)conclude that though I will always support this club through thick and thin, I am no fan of this manager.
Deciding to espouse José Mourinho was a risk, even if our playing style has since been nothing but risk-averse. But it seemed to make some sense. The best way to describe the arrangement would be a marriage of convenience. Here’s José, long time big shot, looking for a quick fling to boost his damaged ego and renew his reputation as a football equivalent of a ‘top shagger’. It wouldn’t require much effort. Champions League semi-final, a couple of domestic trophies, throw in a title challenge perhaps. Perfectly doable, given his track record, and what better club to do it with than…
Tottenham Hotspur. The other half of this arrangement. Very recently out of a long and emotionally-invested relationship, looking for some short-term satisfaction to fulfil the only need their previous partner couldn’t. It says a lot about Tottenham that they packed it in at the first bump in the road considering it was all going so smoothly. But all is fair in love and war. Mourinho is destined to provide the goods that Pochettino couldn’t.
Except he doesn’t. The marriage, after a promising start, hits a snag. Expectations don’t match the reality. It’s boring and frustrating. There’s this tension hanging in the air. The vows – trophies, new and improved tactics, maximising Harry Kane’s ability – are all broken within just a few months. Mourinho has moved in (quite literally, he has lodged at the training ground) and you realise he’s not what you expected. He’s created this horrible stench, stuck up some ugly portraits on the wall and jumbled up your record collection – don’t bet against him selling the best ones either (hang in there, Tanguy). It’s actually true what they say about his style of football. And his erratic press conference displays are in fact only amusing when he’s not your club’s manager. Hell, in times like these you’d be forgiven for indulging in some longing thoughts about that one-time affair with Tim Sherwood. Anything for a bit of fun!
So it turns out José is clearly not the catch he once was. But then neither are we. Tottenham are if anything a downgrade for Mourinho. This man has won the Champions League, whereas the best we’ve done is reach the final and instead of a home run, we’ve run home scared. It wasn’t long ago he was boasting about the number of titles he’s won (note, more than Tottenham) and holding his hand to his ear to aggravate Juventus fans. Now he’s tied down to a team heading for its worst league finish in a decade. The classic “it’s not you, it’s me” could be applied on both sides. If it’s not meant to be with him then who can be his replacement? All the best managers are taken. Eddie Howe might be available soon, but even he has greyed and wrinkled.
Some questions I considered during the match:
- What do they practice on the training ground? It can’t be passing, because we appear incapable of stringing together three in a row. It can’t be attacking either, because we don’t allow ourselves into our opponent’s final third. There are only two things that seem rehearsed: Lo Celso and Bergwijn’s two-man wall at set pieces, and Vertonghen’s passes back to the goalkeeper. I know club social media teams can only show snippets of light training. They can’t stick a camera inside the manager’s team talk (unless it’s an Amazon camera of course), but surely the players are doing more than just endless tournaments of Teqball?
- How awful must we be to not manage a single shot on target against the third worst team in the division? This question was answered, whether I wanted it to be or not, when I read on Twitter that Spurs had become the first team to fail to register a shot on target against Bournemouth since Middlesbrough in the Championship, March 2015. My voice had barely broken then.
- Is there any way I could cancel the North London Derby on Sunday?
- What time does The One Show start?
I feel like an idiot because back in November I allowed myself to think this appointment was a master stroke. This would be the final piece of the jigsaw, the ace to compose a royal flush. Prosperity, in the form of trophies, was around the corner. In fairness, I’d still sacrifice one of my kidneys for a bit of silverware. But I fear we’ve sacrificed more than that without a guaranteed return. Any sort of excitement, flair or creativity has been vacuumed out of this team. We used to embarrass defences, even if we were then in turn embarrassed by our own. Now it’s just clearances and Serge Aurier crosses, and Harry Kane defending the near post at corners. It’s so bloody dull.
There is no easy way out of this mess. Daniel Levy has already set a precedent and will happily replace a manager rather than an ailing squad. Whether it is during or at the end of next season, or perhaps – and god help us all in this instance – at the end of his contract in 2023, Mourinho will depart. Whenever the ending comes for this marriage of convenience, it won’t be a happy one. When is it ever a happy ending with him?
Until then we will have to limp on, putting off the thought of going through the divorce papers. But mark my words, one day soon Tottenham will be back in the market for a manager to a chorus of ‘told you so’ from onlookers. If we had any sense we’d get back with our ex, that handsome Argentine.
Chris Perrin 