Premier League managers- now who would want that job?
Now let me see where was I? Oh yes the Premier League and the mid November re- percussions. Who's top of the Premier League and who's in the middle of it and who's propping up the bottom. The usual suspects it seems but this season normal service has been resumed.
You see last season Leicester City did something they'd never done in their hitherto mundane history. They won the Premier League title or the old First Division as we traditionalists used to call it until the big boys of commercialism came along and supposedly spoilt everything. Leicester were just terrific and a breath of fresh of air. Up until that point the Premier League had been dominated by the Monopolies commission. It was Manchester United who won the League ad infinitum, Chelsea who just followed suit under Jose Mourinho, then in between Arsenal who played and still play some of the most scintillating football ever seen.
Then one day somebody found Richard the Third in a Leicester car park or rather the remains of Richard the Third and then Leicester City, by some bizarre coincidence, won last season's Premier League. Last season Leicester were like an express train, racing through the countryside and just unstoppably relentless. In fact they were so fast that even the good people of Crewe didn't see them for dust. When Claudio Ranieri's men lifted the Premier League trophy last season, the people who championed the underdog whooped with delight. If Leicester could do it then so could they.
But come this season and Leicester are beginning to realise that last season was just a fabulous dream, the stuff of Hollywood film makers rather than pragmatic reality. Now they languish near the bottom of the Premier League after yesterday's 2-1 defeat at Watford. It all seems desperately unfair and yet when they polish off their Sunday lunch they may reflect on those heady days with just a touch of fondness.
The top four sounds much more like the the customary supporting cast. It's Liverpool, followed by Manchester City, Chelsea, Arsenal and Spurs. For the nostalgic among us, it looks much the same as it did a couple of seasons ago and there is a vague resemblance to the 1970s. Sadly both Derby, Leeds and Nottingham Forest are nowhere to be seen but their back stories have been well documented. For Dave Mackay, Don Revie and Brian Clough, read Jurgen Klopp, Pep Guardiola, Antonio Conte, Arsene Wenger and Mauricio Pochettino. The faces are startlingly different but the mannerisms are much the same.
Liverpool now top the Premier League and it almost feels like the 1970s and 80s all over again. Now though under Jurgen Klopp they are now a team re-invented and re-juvenated. There is a buzz and vibrancy around the newly re-furbished Anfield that feels very comforting. Nobody will ever forget the extraordinary deeds of Bill Shankly, Bob Paisley and Joe Fagan but it now feels as though the present day Liverpool are beginning to believe that the glories of the old days can now be resurrected and brought up to date.
So Jurgen Klopp. What is there to be said about this smiling and happy-go lucky German. He may have won a League title with Borussia Dortmund but now Liverpool is his new project, his new challenge and assignment. So far so good for Klopp. Apart from the defeat at Burnley, Liverpool look irresistible and a side beautifully designed. They may be cursing the lost years since their last League title but Liverpool look the business this season, a side fit for all purposes.
Klopp is an anthroplogist's dream. The body language is just intriguing. Jurgen Klopp sits in his dug out thoughtfully, glasses neatly perched on his nose and gazing out at his new domain. The Klopp beard is a darkish, greying creation. The hair is much the same, a chaotic arrangement of grey and black that just seems to sway in the breeze from time to time.
But it's the Klopp appearance that is most revealing. He sits there in his dug out, track suit tightly bound and hood neither off nor on. Every so often Klopp leaps out of his dug out like some animated Lottery winner, punching the inevitable fist when Liverpool score and then retreating reluctantly into his seat as if a teacher has just told him to sit down. When Liverpool score though Klopp becomes a man possessed, running up and down the touchline and grinning wildly from ear to ear.
There is something of the art student about Klopp or some energetic rock icon, possibly one of the unknown members of the 1970s band Kraftwerk, It would be easy to stereotype Klopp as some beer swilling hedonist from Munich. But Klopp shows a genuine zest for life and if Liverpool do win the League again they may have street parties on Merseyside or beerfests in Dortmund. But I like Klopp because he just seems convinced that one day his achievements will be recognised all over the world. Perhaps he'll appear on TV and tell everybody how proud and honoured he is to be manager of Liverpool. You can hardly blame him for doing so.
Behind Liverpool and Klopp are Manchester City, a team now bankrolled by millions and billions of Middle East money and recent winners of the Premier League. City, of course used to play to thousands in music halls up and down the country. Just over 25 years ago City were staring at the black hole of obscurity. They were teetering on the edge of the cliff, perched precariously on the precipice. Wow, City almost went flying over the edge helplessly only to be pulled back from the brink in the 90th minute. One minute they were in the desert of the old Third Division and now they're flying high in the new glitzy Premier League with two recent titles in the bag.
Whenever City are discussed in pubs and clubs the memories will be dug out like those old fashioned holiday snaps we used to take with our Kodak Instamatic camera. In those misty far old days the names of Malcolm Allison and Joe Mercer would be remembered with a warm reverence. Allison and Mercer picked City off the floor, brushed them down and converted them into one of the most stylish teams in the country. The names of Bell, Lee, Marsh and Summerbee are rather like hymns in a prayer book. They were chanted and idolised by the Maine Road faithful and then acclaimed as League champions, Allison, for ever the outrageous party animal, would take off his fedora hat and Mercer would just sit patiently next to him rather like a lovable uncle with just a hint of wordly wisdom on his face.
Now though City have got Pep Guardiola, the former Barcelona manager and one of the most well respected coaches in the world. Guardiola is very much the modern manager. He's hip, cool and mainstream. Guardiola is just a dynamic force who may one day conquer the world. He looks as though he might win the World Cup with Spain for the next 30 years. The face is sickeningly unlined, he looks as though he sips Tequillas every night and, to all outward appearances, is admirably fit. He marches out to that Etihad Stadium dug out like a man who's just arrived from an art exhibition or some glamorous film premiere.
Guardiola is very much the product of his generation, a smart and debonair man who takes everything in his composed stride. The Guardiola hair is severely cropped but perfectly combed. His suits are cut to perfection and there is almost something presidential about him that demands respect. He smiles agreeably at his adoring fans, milks the applause and then shakes the hand of his rival manager with an almost commendable politeness.
You know what they say about football managers. It's always their fault when things go wrong. They're either stone faced and uncaring or just incapable of doing their job. But when their teams go out onto the pitch and win handsomely then everyday is Christmas, their birthday and everything is well with the world. Give that man a great big whacking pay rise, a holiday in the sun and the freedom of the City. Don't you just love it when your team win the League and then keep winning it because it's perhaps a habit? Sadly though none of them can get it exactly right. It would be great if they could though.
Guardiola though looks totally concentrated, a man of rampant ambition and tremendous charisma. He reminds you of the chairman of a company who sits at the top of the table and then radiates confidence, professionalism personified. Guardiola drinks capuccinos rather than coffee and a gentle salad for lunch. He wears sartorially elegant tank top pullovers and Armani shirts and trousers. Above all Guardiola looks the part and never out of place.
The new man at Chelsea is Antonio Conte, an Italian with all the enthusiasm of a child with his first railway set. Conte charges up and down his Stamford Bridge touch-line as if he can't believe just how lucky and privileged he may be. His predecessor Jose Mourinho was almost too good to be true and it's hard to know whether Conte should see Mourinho as a role model or not. For now the feeling and vibe is a good one and Conte is settling into the Chelsea hot seat as if it were the easiest and most straightforward job in the world.
Conte is dark skinned, swarthy and endearingly restless. If only he could keep still for a minute. Maybe he ought to listen to some relaxation tape. There is none of Mourinho's alleged arrogance about him but the man is forever skipping and jumping up and down with a vaguely obsessive air. Once again Conte is booted and suited and you're inclined to think that Conte lives in Saville Row. Occasionally his body language borders on the hilarious but there is a lovely excitability about him that leaves you breathless.
And then there is Arsenal manager Arsene Wenger who seems to have been at the club for ever. 20 years ago Wenger replaced the now sadly forgotten Bruce Rioch. What, the critics, said, did he ever achieve with Arsenal. Zilch, nothing, rien. Oh well it could have been worse I suppose. When Wenger arrived at the old Highbury nobody had ever heard of the Frenchman. Arsenal fans must have thought it was some April Fool's joke. In time though Wenger would come to be hailed as Caesar, a giant of a man, an all conquering serial winner who won Premier League titles and FA Cups as if they were going out of fashion. The trophies were on the table and the spoils of victory were his.
Regrettably for Arsenal fans, the Premier League has not decorated the Emirates Stadium for quite a while but Wenger remains undeterred. This season it all looks as if that 10 year trek through the wilderness could be coming to a joyous end. Arsenal, once again sit poised like a lethal cobra, ready to strike with a vengeance. Arsenal remain one of the best organised and the most skilfully run of all Premier League clubs. They're structurally correct and a side with the strongest of foundations rather like a five star hotel in Park Lane.
Wenger continues to look as he's always looked. The face is gaunt, haggard and well chiselled. He still looks as if he's seen a thousand ghosts and at times looks totally drained of all emotion. The cheek bones are more prominent than ever, the eyes both hollow and lost. Maybe the stresses and strains that football frequently imposes on football managers are beginning to catch up with him. The rest of Wenger's body looks in a total state of revolt and insubordination.
He leans forward in a track suit that looks as though it just wants to be free of him. In fact keen observers of the Wenger persona will have noticed that the said track suit refuses to zip up when Wenger tells it to. Then his body hunches forward, tension in his eyes, cheeks and now a strained forehead. He looks like a tormented soul who would much rather be pruning his roses than managing a football club. But Wenger is still as thin as a rake, a professsor of the arts and sciences, a connoisseur of a fine wine. Wenger is also fashionably devoted to the tank top but the shirt, suit and tie never desert him. Above all though Wenger is a brilliant manger whose record now may never be challenged.
Last but not least there is Spurs boss Mauricio Pochettino. Spurs are one of football's great romantics, always harking back to the glory, glory days of the Double at the beginning of the 1960s. For years Bill Nicholson was adored by Spurs fans, a man with wisdom and foresight in his CV. In fact some Tottenham fans were inclined to believe that Nicholson was born with these inherent qualities.
But times move on decades roll by and the class of 2016 has given Spurs Mauricio Pochettino. Pochettino is a much quieter, more restrained figure than any of his contemporaries Pochettino rarely looks flustered or bothered by anything. The coat collar is pulled up sharply and there is something of the Maigret about him. This is not to suggest that he is a devious spy or cop but Pochettino watches everything with an eagle eye. The stubble on his chin though does give him an air of mystique, Perhaps this is a good thing.
So there you are. A list of the great and good of the Premier League managers contiunes to remain a wonderful source of fascination. My study leaves me with some wonderfully enduring images. There was the tight coat of Ronald Koeman at Everton who seems to have buttoned up securely for the winter, the worried frowns of Sunderland's David Moyes and Mike Phelan at Hull, the designer coated sophistication of Claudio Ranieri at Leicester City and the totally disenchanted Jose Mourinho who looks like a man who may have lost thousands and millions at the casino tables. Football management hey. It's a thankless and unenviable task.
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