A numbness. An emptiness. I am filled with the knowledge that football has nothing to offer me any more. Without Jose, football is dead to me.
Without the teeniest possibility that I'll catch a glimpse of him - in the terraces, on the bench, jumping up and down on the sidelines in a killer coat - why would I watch Match of the Day ever again? Why would anyone? My passion for Mourinho is multi-layered and nuanced. It began a little over two years ago, just under a year after he arrived at Chelsea, when he first started cropping up in the non-sporting sections of the papers; and it evolved from there.
It's partly based on him being, you know, dead handsome: a fully-fledged, rugged-faced, salt 'n' peppery, darkly brooding, sardonically eyebrowed dream of a man, to be specific. Mourinho rode the vanguard of the retrosexual revolution of spring , during which women turned their backs on such fragrant and moisturised lust icons as Jude Law and the gilded, over-preened, over-considered prettiness of David Beckham, and focused their fancying instead on Daniel Craig, Clive Owen - and my Jose.
Because Slow is Faster and Fast is Merely Exhausting!
Mourinho is intriguing because he's an arrogant, charming, delicious, excitable soap opera in human form. He is the antithesis of the ineloquent, cliche-spouting, hedge-straddling vortices of characters that otherwise populate the Premier League and its related factions. Remember when he shushed an entire crowd?
And when he said he was 'the most special one'? And when he said 'There is God, and after God - me '?
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And those facial expressions! The puffing out of the cheeks, the dismissive frowns, the sullen jaw-clenching, the moody scowl, the wry smiles Even more brilliant!
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But my interest in Mourniho is mainly predicated on the fact that Jose knows his fashion. Not in the dress-by-numbers, wear what your stylist tells you, titillate-the-paps way that Beckham knows fashion, but in a genuinely hot, Euro way.
Mourinho knows his suits and his polo shirts, his brogues and his belts. He knows how high to button his shirts and when to wear a crew-neck T-shirt beneath them; he knows how fat to knot his ties, at precisely what angle to swish his scarves. He knows how close to crop his hair and how far he can allow it to grow out.
He knows which colours work best against his skin tones. Most of all, of course, he knows the power of a statement coat. He influenced my writing, granting me the courage to be different and to live my art as he did his. For a short time, he even changed his name to a symbol during an argument with his record label Warner Brothers. He did what he wanted. He lived his life through music. He was music.
His personal bank account of time ran out yesterday at am Minneapolis time on April 21, There are more than just doves crying today. Farewell, my Prince.
qyjywolu.tk: Farewell my PRINCE :~(
I will miss you until the end of my days. She works as a professional storyteller PR, translations, books from the home she shares with her children in Freiburg, Germany. Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email. This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed. Farewell, My Prince Words.