On the sad spectacle of Jose Mourinho falling over

On his way to watch England play Spain at Wembley over the weekend, Jose Mourinho fell over.

These are beginning to feel like end times for Jose Mourinho. After an unparalleled, decade-long run of mildly offensive, mostly consequence-free press conferences, the tide of public opinion seems to have turned.

The mind games are growing old, the meltdowns stale, the results inconsistent. Even his loyalists among the Manchester United faithful appear to be running out of ways to blame Ed Woodward.

But I say this only as prologue to the real matter at hand, which is that on Saturday, on his way to Wembley to watch England play Spain in the UEFA Nations League, Jose Mourinho fell over.

In the minor pantheon of sad managerial tumblings, Mourinho’s ranks at best a distant second to Arsene Wenger’s effort in February of 2014, which came mere hours after a very humiliating 5-1 loss to Liverpool at Anfield.

Wenger was 64 at the time, nine years older than Mourinho is now, and of course has a physique of such birdlike frailty (and a track record of such public clumsiness) it’s a wonder the wind didn’t knock him over five or six times a match.

Wenger also — despite the intensity of the rage he had at that point long since begun to inspire among certain subsections of the Arsenal fanbase, not even to mention his staunch refusal to stop extending Carl Jenkinson’s contract — always seemed like a dignified and respectful man, a man for whom falling down was more minor, personal tragedy than publicity stunt.

Mourinho, on the other hand, is so fond of wanton a**holery the two years he spent methodically destroying Luke Shaw’s confidence not only don’t even graze the top 10 on the list of sh**tiest things he’s ever done, but after Shaw’s first few games of this season were even starting to seem like a good idea.

What I’m saying is: I’m tempted to suggest this was an elaborate hoax. After all, tripping over a literal velvet rope and falling straight onto your face truly is a gold mine, vis-a-vis inspiring empathy among an increasingly jaded public.

And indeed, given Mourinho’s recent loss of respect has been underscored by the various successes of a new generation of managers who are both younger than Mourinho and tend to receive a considerable amount of attention for the sort of enthusiastic displays of technical area virility for which Mourinho was once famous, the fall was, if anything, a little too on the nose.

But, alas, there are some things you simply can’t fake, and tripping over a literal velvet rope and falling straight onto your face is one of them.

The look on Mourinho’s face, as he is helped to his feet by a kindly a steward (on the back of whose jacket are written the also-a-little-too-on-the-nose words, “here to help”), is a look anyone who has ever fallen over in public must surely recognize.

The semi-fawning, semi-menacing crowd of autograph hunters that greet Mourinho upon his arrival shift seamlessly into a chorus of “he fell over” as the Special One recedes from few, trailed by his steward in shining armor.

These are dark times. I’ll take video evidence of genuine human connection where I can get it.