End of the line

If ever there was an afternoon at Stamford Bridge when I needed a pick-me-up, it was Saturday. The day before I was made redundant, and with football - to evoke Karl Marx - one of my go-to opiates, I was hoping that Chelsea would deliver. I was clearly to be disappointed. 24 hours later, Chelsea head coach Graham Potter joined me amongst the unemployed (although, it should be noted, with considerably better compensation).

Credit where it’s due, Aston Villa were just more organised, more committed and better drilled. Not for the first time this season with visitors to the Bridge, they were an opponent who didn’t create many chances, but when they did, took them well, with excellent goals from Ollie Watkins and John McGinn. Potter, in his post-match comments, would bemoan Chelsea’s better possession stats, but stats don’t win games. Goals do. 

On Saturday, as it has been for countless Saturdays this season, not to mention some Sundays, the occasional Wednesday and one obscure Friday, it was hard to see where Chelsea’s goals would come from. With Reece James, arguably Europe’s best right wingback, consigned to central defence, and Ruben Loftus-Cheek - a pedestrian midfielder at best - unable to create any width, Chelsea’s notoriously anaemic attack had little supply. On the left, Ben Chilwell, James’ opposite number and just as impactful, was forced into spending more time defending that attacking. It all pointed to the same thing: Chelsea hadn’t been set up right.

Graham Potter never felt right as a Chelsea manager, but fans were prepared to give him a chance, stoically supporting the rare opportunity of an Englishman in the dugout. But before our eyes, the fanbase began to erode, and the #potterout tweets proliferated. On Saturday, the 50% of supporters yet to turn on him, did. The atmosphere at full time, with large swathes of empty seats visible, was notably sulphurous. Last night’s club statement was inevitable. 

Unlike many, however, I held back from the Graham Potter pile-on that built up in the wake of his appointment after Thomas Tuchel was abruptly dismissed in September. Todd Boehly and his co-owners had signalled that their £4.25 billion takeover would herald a period of stability, a commodity missing during the turbulent Roman Abramovich era, when managers came and went like trains at Clapham Junction. Potter had never achieved anything at a so-called ‘elite’ club, but he’d built Brighton & Hove Albion into a decent side and on relatively meagre means, too. From one angle, however, he looked like the good soldier, a nice bloke who would drive the new owners’ long-term “project”, whatever that was. 

The conclusion now is that long-term thinking is fairly pointless in the Premier League, when judgement is meted out on day-to-day results. Even if Boehly and co-controlling owner Behdad Eghbali were prepared to stick with the Englishman, the noise around him wouldn’t go away.  In the end, sporting directors Paul Winstanley and Lawrence Stewart pushed for an immediate change and got it.

In fairness, the decision put Potter out of his misery. In February he spoke about the unforgivable abuse his family had received in the wake of Chelsea’s poor performances - many of which weren’t his fault as injuries began to rack up just as a new squad, which hadn’t had the benefit of a proper pre-season, toiled. In further mitigation, the spending spree of close to £600 million that the Boehly-Clearlake Capital went on in two transfer windows, bloated the squad with more expensive players than even José Mourinho would have known what to do with, adding unbelievable pressure to Potter who found himself charting new and decidedly richer professional waters.

“You have to accept that when the results are what they are, you accept criticism and it should come,” Potter reflected in February. “But that isn’t to say it’s easy at all. Your family life suffers, your mental heath suffers, and your personality suffers. It’s hard.” That may have won him some deserved sympathy, but the results continued to be poor. “Clearly it is a process of how to get our message across better. How can we structure things in a way to help the players? Because that is what we are here for. When results aren’t good, you have to accept that we haven’t done it well enough.”

In every post-match interview and pre-match press conference, Potter would pursue the same passive defence: “I feel the support of the players, I feel the support of everyone here,” he said after being beaten 2-0 by a managerless Tottenham (Antonio Conte being absent due to gallbladder surgery). “I understand the frustrations externally but among the players it is a desire for us all to do better and that is the pleasing thing. The results haven’t been good but we are still there fighting for each other.”

If I was writing his lines, as a PR pro, I’d probably be having him say the same thing. The reality, however, on the pitch was a whole lot different. Even if the intent was there, the execution wasn’t. Potter’s 31 games in charge - which included 11 defeats, 12 wins and eight draws - resulted in Chelsea’s worst managerial record in the Premier League era, which began with a nominal revival in the early 1990s as the late Matthew Harding’s investments brought a touch of glamour to the club, including a new stand, and players like Ruud Gullit, Gianluca Vialli and Gianfranco Zola.

But nothing is ever simple at Chelsea. BT Sport’s brilliant recent documentary Pound Land - The Battle Of The Bridge recounted the fractious rivalry between Harding and chairman Ken Bates who, himself, had led a valiant effort to save Stamford Bridge from being turned into flats. Bates had bought the club at the end of an equally turbulent period, when the club faced bankruptcy as a result of over-extending itself by building the Bridge’s East Stand (where I’ve sat for the last 20-plus years) on the back of the club’s successes in the early 1970s. The late ’70s and much of the ’80s were marked by relegations, financial ruin and the scourge of hooliganism. 

The arrival of ‘name’ players in the 1990s commenced a period of increasing success that ultimately led to Roman Abramovich buying the club in 2003, and leading to 20 titles over the course of his 19 years’ ownership. We had literally never had it so good. But if the near-bankruptcy of the ’70s, and the fight to keep Chelsea at Stamford Bridge were existential threats, Russia’s invasion of Ukraine last year genuinely took the club to the abyss. The Government’s sanctioning of Abramovich forced the sale that brought the Boehly-Clearlake consortium to the rescue. 

The last ten months since the takeover must be put into some context. That Potter leaves Chelsea with such a disappointing record is unfortunate, but let’s face it - at least he had a Chelsea to be fired from. 

That notwithstanding, however, questions should quite rightly be asked about the club strategy since the takeover, particularly of the £600 million in player acquisitions that seemed more scattergun than purposeful, and whether Potter was ever the right manager to take charge of them. 

“We have the highest degree of respect for Graham as a coach and as a person,” Boehly and Eghbali said in a statement last night. ”He has always conducted himself with professionalism and integrity and we are all disappointed in this outcome.“ As they should be.

Of course, no one will ever know whether Thomas Tuchel, whose firing remains shrouded in suggestions of backroom disagreements (he wasn’t exactly a compliant employee at Paris Saint-Germain…) would have fared better, but given what he delivered since replacing Frank Lampard in January 2021, taking the team on to win the Champions League itself, makes one wonder whether his departure was really for the best. And if it was, why was Potter, a manager seen as the driver of a decent Ford Focus, given the keys to a Bugatti Veyron Super Sport like Chelsea? Potter will have his reasons for his team selections, but for the paying fans, they’ve often been hard to fathom. And if they’re hard for the crowd to comprehend, it’s likely that they’d be difficult for the players too. 

Chelsea’s next manager will have his work cut out. He’ll be inheriting a lop-sided squad that should be challenging for titles but, barring an incomprehensible miracle in Europe, will next season be focused solely on domestic silverware. A much-needed clear-out this summer, partly to balance the books for Financial Fair Play, might allow that new head coach to start from scratch, with a proper pre-season and a blueprint of how to go about things. In some respects, that clear-out began last night, with Graham Potter’s departure. The onus is on Boehly and Eghbali to choose his successor with a little more understanding of the task he’ll have to deliver on.

Leave it mate, it ain't worth it

Despite José Mourinho being released from his employment as head coach at my football club almost three years ago, you could be forgiven for thinking that I have, in the Portuguese's own words, become a "voyeur", based on the number of times I've blogged about him since. This, you may recall, is a reference to one of his verbal spats with rival Arsène Wenger: "There are some guys who, when they are at home, have a big telescope to see what happens in other families. Wenger must be one of them – it is a sickness. He speaks, speaks, speaks about Chelsea."

Mourinho's regular mangling of the English language while projecting his reputation as football's great pantomime villain was tiresome then, and his antics continue to be tiresome now. If, then, for example, he is to be ired by Chelsea fans goading him on Saturday afternoon at the end of the entertainingly brusque 2-2 draw with Manchester United, then after more than a decade and a half in the English game he is clearly naive about the nature of football fans in this country (Rafa Benitez is still branded a "fat Spanish waiter" at Stamford Bridge, despite landing Chelsea a Europa League title...). Contrast, then, the standing ovation afforded United midfielder Juan Mata as he was substituted on Saturday. If you want respect, José, just look at that, even considering that the diminutive Spaniard had almost beheaded compatriot César Azpilicueta with a wayward tackle earlier in the game.

There's little shying away from the fact that Mourinho had a right to be a little peeved following Ross Barkley's injury time equaliser, when over-exuberant Chelsea technical coach Marco Ianni leapt from the dugout to celebrate, fist-pumping past the United coach once, then twice. Mourinho's reaction was, actually, quite funny: his eyes lighting up at the sight of Ianni coming back for a second bite of goading reminded me of Animal from the Muppets.

Mourinho's evacuation of his seat was equally impressive - he's four years older than me, and yet he was up and out of his chair and after Ianni like a coiled spring. It takes me a full five minutes just to get off the sofa. Ianni's behaviour was, though, out of order: you just can't do that sort of thing. He can expect sanction from both the FA and his club. Punishing Mourinho's reaction would be harsh. If any member of the Manchester United party should get a slap on the wrist for their involvement in the melee it's the combustible Ashley Young who sprinted a full 30 yards to get stuck into something that was none of his business. But, then, that's Young for you - he'd been spoiling for a fight of some kind all afternoon.

Like most outbreaks of handbags at a football match, it was all over as fast as it had begun. Someone had clearly said, probably in Portuguese, "leave it bruv, it ain't worth it", and Mourinho returned to his luxurious perch on the United bench. And that was then the mood turned really sour. "Fuck off Mourinho", sang the Matthew Harding Stand (two days before the 22nd anniversary of the Chelsea benefactor's untimely death in a helicopter crash), which inevitably goaded Mourinho further. At the final whistle, he strode purposely towards the United fans in the south-east corner of Stamford Bridge, stopping while still well in front of the East Stand, where he pranced back towards the tunnel waving three fingers in the air, occasionally stopping to point at the ground. Yes, José, we got the message, and we still don't care.

You don't 'command' respect from your former faithful. No one at Stamford Bridge needs a three-fingered reminder of the league titles Mourinho won for Chelsea, including the club's first in 50 years. Respect is something earned, not demanded. We loved Mourinho when he was at the club, and even forgave most of the eccentricities that wound up rival fans and governing bodies alike. Perhaps, though, our patience was tested too far by that 18-week period in 2015 when Chelsea went from reigning champions on the opening day of the season to one place above the relegation zone in mid-December. It was all rather baffling, how the champions could have found themselves in free-fall in the immediate next season. But, then, as we've seen, there's a Mourinho pattern. And given the theory that he'd always wanted to be the Manchester United manager - even when there wasn't a vacancy - there's still the lingering suspicion that in those final four months of 2015 it was Mourinho's plan to get himself fired, a challenge which seems more attainable at Chelsea than most others. Oddly, even in the aftermath of that period, Chelsea fans were reluctant to blame Mourinho. We were just baffled. So we cut him some slack and moved on. Mourinho, it would appear, hasn't. Even if the Harding end's chanting on Saturday was provocation on top of provocation, Mourinho's three fingers were just a demonstration of the thin skin that clads his body, and the petulance which makes him hard to like as a human being, let alone as the divisive manager of a football club.

A touch of High Fidelity with the return of the ex-

© Simon Poulter 2016

I am, obviously, totally biased when I say that the game of the weekend was yesterday's encounter at Stamford Bridge between Chelsea and Manchester, but for different reasons going into it than coming out.

Until 4pm yesterday I was the uneasy mess I often am before big games. It's an irrational neurosis, of course, but games between Chelsea and exalted opposition, or even just important cup ties, have me wound up tighter than a drum. It is - and here comes the first dig at those who think we're all arriviste glory-hunters at the Bridge - the result of years of underachievement, failure and humiliating defeats. Manchester United inflicted a particularly painful one on us at Wembley in 1994, and I've struggled - actually, failed - to let go of it ever since. Caught up in that is the lingering envy stemming from a period when United won everything and had the spending power, it seemed, to buy whomever they wanted. Looking back in cold hindsight, they were simply the best football club in the land with the best manager. It doesn't matter what their finances were like, it's simply what they were. But that period of United's imperiousness cast a long shadow over my relationship with the club as a Chelsea fan. Even when United haven't, actually, been that good (basically, since SAF retired), I have still approached games with them with queasy dread.

Yesterday's game had the added spice of the return of José Mourinho, coupled with a United that had spent generously in the summer, with all pundits, at the start of the season at least, pitting the 2016-17 Premier League season as, essentially, a face-off between the two Manchesters and their coaches. In fact, the return of Mourinho genuinely mattered least for me. Yes, it was like awkwardly encountering an ex-girlfriend with her new beau (which reminds me, I need to rewatch High Fidelity), but like adults you hopefully can move on from that.

The way Mourinho crashed and burned at Chelsea last season, almost taking the club with him through the trapdoor, fumigated any lingering affection for him. Don't get me wrong: I don't wish to sound ungrateful for what he did for Chelsea - truly, he brought about success on a scale I'd previously thought impossible in my lifetime - but last season exposed the toxicity of his personality, the vindictiveness that, when unleashed, undermines the brilliance of his successful football ethos.

Because - and I'll get on to yesterday's game in a moment - all the good, the pride and excitement that Mourinho had built up with Chelsea's Premier League title win in 2014-15, was unravelled in those first four months of last season, when negativity bred further negativity, when players' heads dropped when they should have been lifted by the coach, when the poisonous air around the club over the treatment of Eva Carneiro lingered long after Mourinho and Chelsea parted company again.

This time last year Chelsea were 15th in the league, had lost five, drawn two and won three, had been dumped out of the League Cup (a title they were defending) with Mourinho suspended for allegedly telling referee John Moss: "Wenger was right. You are fucking soft" at West Ham. In the same week, Carneiro served papers on the club for constructive dismissal. In the space of three months, Chelsea had gone from English champions to laughing stock. Halloween has often been the starting point of a nightmare period for Chelsea, usually culminating in a managerial sacking, but by this point last year, the horror had already become unbearable. And Mourinho could be blamed for much, if not all of it.

So, then, yesterday. That Chelsea demolished Manchester United 4-0, providing some, admittedly petty respite for that 1994 embarassment, has nothing to do with Mourinho, revenge or any other misdirected emotion. In fact the real emotion of yesterday's game was more to do with commemorating Matthew Harding, the man whose investment pre-dated that of Roman Abramovich, and whose infectious fandom and largesse saw a club struggling with survival actually stay afloat. You could argue that Harding's money brought renewal to Chelsea that made it more attractive to Abramovich.

Yesterday's win was for Harding. But also for Antonio Conte. Like his compatriot Carlo Ancelotti, Conte has brought a dignified presence to the managership of Chelsea. Yes, it's a little alarming to see him windmilling so frantically on the touchline, but then in his post-match interviews and press conferences you see a gracious, charming and funny man, completely unbound by the neuroses that gnaw so visibly away at Mourinho. Even yesterday he had to drag the spotlight away from his team's moribund display by creating an argument with Conte about nothing (apparently the Portuguese was upset that his rival was trying to get the crowd going when the score was already 4-0 - this from a man who complained that Stamford Bridge was TOO quiet...!).

Removing Mourinho and even Manchester United from the equation, yesterday's game was delightful entertainment for a Chelsea fan. Every player - even David Luiz - did their jobs, and did them well. The wingback/three-man-central-defence system worked a treat, N'Golo Kante is looking terrific in his distribution, tackling and posession, and even Pedro scored. Pedro. After 28 seconds of the opening whistle. Happy days.