“I have nothing to say.”

“José, just give me an answer please.”

“I am so sorry, I have nothing, nothing to say. Nothing at all.”

“José, this is getting silly now. Stop sulking.”

“I’m sorry, the fans are not stupid. Interview over.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake José, just tell me! What do you want for your dinner?”

“...”

“Nothing to say.”

José Mourinho normally liked his wife, but not when she asked quite so many questions. He’d been getting enough of those as it was, recently. Probing questions. Annoying questions. Hurtful questions.

Questions like: “Are you aware that your Chelsea side are currently only three points clear of the relegation zone?”

Like: “Is there really anything particularly ‘special’ about getting turned over by a Stoke City team – a club, let’s not forget, who play Glenn Whelan week in, week out without so much as a hint of irony – twice in the same fortnight?”

And some that were just plain mean. Questions like: “José, just how many pints down were you when you decided it would be a cracking idea to take Radamel Falcao on loan?”
There was clearly a campaign not only against Chelsea, but against José personally – and he wasn’t going to stand for it. “You,” he mused to himself, “are a managerial great. The Special One.”

“Sir Bobby Robson’s protégé. 15 years. Seven clubs. A host of personal honours. Two Champions Leagues. Three Premier League titles. One FA Cup. 22 club trophies won in total as a manager.”

“And just 11 points from 12 games so far this season. Seven losses. 16th in the league. Shit. Can I wake up soon, please? Where did it all go wrong?”

He just couldn’t understand it. He’d been putting out strong sides; teams liberally studded with world class talents such as Eden Hazard, Cesc Fàbregas and Abdul Baba Rahman.

Yet still they needed Willian to confirm his status as their key player and save them against some Ukrainian team that had, as far as he could tell, been named after a dish comprised of a chicken breast stuffed with garlic butter. It must have been some sort of bizarre sponsorship deal.

His team, he assured himself, were playing excellent football – they were simply being sabotaged by referees, the Football Association, Cesc Fàbregas, and the same people who killed Princess Diana. He wasn’t quite sure about that last bit, but he knew for certain that it had absolutely nothing – “nothing at all” – to do with him.

Yet despite his team’s proficiency, despite recently receiving Roman Abramovich’s public backing, and despite the fact that dismissing him could cost Chelsea tens of millions of pounds, people were still spreading nasty rumours. Rumours that he really would be “sacked in the morning.” Rumours that Atlético Madrid’s Diego Simeone was being lined up to replace him.

He’d never liked that poncey Argentine. He did have a lovely beard, though, did Diego. Mourinho sighed deeply, which had become something of a habit of late. He wished he could have a beard like that. “Even that idiot Klopp has one,” he muttered bitterly, “and he’s rubbish.”

“Don’t even get me started on Guardiola.”

Would he really get the sack? José didn’t know, and frankly, he didn’t care.
All he knew was that all of this was really getting him down; even his old hobbies seemed grey, dull and purposeless, eliciting no revelry, no laughter, and no joy. Playstation? Nothing. Prank calling Nigel Pearson? Nothing. Even staring at his own chiselled, gleaming reflection in the bathroom mirror. Nothing. (But God, he was gorgeous.)

All the drama had even ruined his preparations on match day. Where his pregame ritual had previously consisted of shadowboxing a framed portrait of Arsene Wenger’s smug, punchable little face to the tune of ‘Eye of The Tiger’, now he just wallowed in self-pity, staring pensively out of his bus window with Adele’s ‘Hello’ playing on a loop.
But José cut a disconsolate figure as, slowly yet surely, the great songstress’ lyrics blurred into nothing more than just another press conference.

“Hello, it’s me.”

“Hello? Can you hear me? I must have called a hundred times!”

“Hello? José? José? I’m still waiting for a response, love. You’ve been sitting there, just staring into space for almost an hour now. What do you want for your tea?”

“I cannot speak about referees.”

“Right, it’s going to be spaghetti hoops then,” snapped his wife.

“Fine,” sighed a despondent Mourinho. “At least then I won’t be able to bite off more than I can chew.”