A sadness swept over me yesterday (Wednesday). A sadness that made me look at my life and achievements and question everything I have ever done – and indeed everything I didn’t do. A melancholia that still hangs over me today, and may do for a few more days yet.
It’s nothing that the missus or my boy has done. Work is same old same old (read: sh*t). It was a simple news item that plunged me into this introspective darkness.
A sports news item.
The new Chelsea manager, Andre Villas-Boas, is 33 years old and is the youngest Premiership manager to date.
33 YEARS OLD!!!
Jesus Christ how did this happen? I can accept players being younger than me, but managers?
Aren’t managers supposed to be camel-hair coat wearing, cigar-chomping, fire-and-brimstone titans in the mould of Ron Atkinson or Malcolm Allinson??
Or wheeler-dealer, used car salesmen wideboys like Barry Fry or Harry Redknapp?
Villas-Boas won the Portuguese league, cup and Europa League in his first season in charge of Porto – aged 33.
Aged 33 I finally gave in to pressure and learnt how to make a cup of tea, struggled to get to grips with predictive text messaging, and used to fall asleep in front of the TV at 9pm.
I wish him all the luck in the world, as no matter how qualified or good he is, it’s going to be interesting to watch these pampered Stamford Bridge playboys taking orders from someone who, for some of them ( Lampard, Drogba ) is the same age or younger.
And if he fails? I’m sure Abramovich has some 14 year-old paperboy in mind to replace him.
In the meantime I will continue to evaluate my own miserable existence. Give me a rope. Find me a sturdy tree. Goodbye ma, it’s my time to go.
Lee Morgan