Jose Mourinho -The Special One becomes football history.

 Jose Mourinho- The Special One becomes football history.

So poor old Jose Mourinho has been sacked by Manchester United. The man who unequivocally believes that he has no equal as football manager and insists that he is the greatest thing since sliced bread was given the old heave ho, kicked into touch, told to leave by the back door in no uncertain terms. The truth is of course that this has been coming for quite some time so maybe we shouldn't have been entirely shocked.

The truth is of course that Mourinho is no longer the Special One. In fact the Portuguese was simply asking for it, almost staring into the abyss because the time had come, the signs were there, patience had run dry, the excuses were no longer credible or plausible and United had had enough. They'd had enough of the sneering and snarling, the vanity, the narcissism, the giant inflated ego, the sense that he was in charge, he was morally and intellectually superior and nobody could possibly argue with his record because that spoke for itself. But Jose always seemed to have an answer to his critics.

So perhaps sadly, although perhaps with a sense of relief, Mourinho was shown the exit door at Old Trafford and a vast majority of Manchester United fans may think that this was a blessing in disguise. Mourinho was just a moping, sulking, discontented liability and just kidding himself. Recently, his press conferences have assumed a soap opera quality, full of impassioned rants, agitated grumblings and personal attacks on anybody prepared to listen to him. Jose was sound and fury, a man who felt the whole world was against him.

It's easy to assume that he had the most gigantic chip on his shoulder since the persecution complex and paranoia that accompanied him may have been the final words on the matter. It is well known that Mourinho hasn't been a happy bunny but then when was that ever the case anyway? He remains that morbid, morose and cantankerous figure in the managerial dug out who never smiled even when United were winning. So what was the point of making my voice heard when nobody would give him the time of day?

High above were those footballing legends who so dramatically transformed United's image to such an extent that Mourinho must have thought that there were red hot pokers in his back. Sitting in the directors box at Manchester United were Sir Alex Ferguson, now thankfully back to full health and the glorious Sir Bobby Charlton, the man who survived the most tragic of air disasters and then breathed new life back into football's most cherished national treasure.

What must be going through the minds of both Ferguson and Charlton at the moment? Do they think that the rashest of decision making was made, that when Louis Van Gaal and David Moyes were no longer applicable or suitable for the manager's job at United, Manchester United simply panicked. Did they think that a more high profile and richly successful football man who had already proved his Premier League title winning credentials would do the same with Manchester United?

But clearly Mourinho was the wrong fit, the wrong man for the job. He didn't quite meet up to the job specifications, he had turned United into a very cautious, negative, functional team whose intentions were probably honourable but were so far removed from the traditional style that United had always advocated that they may just as well have been Newton Heath and still playing in that brief season of yellow and green.

Now though the man from Portugal is no longer the precious one, the beloved and respected one who lifted the Premier League for Chelsea in two back to back seasons. Then Mourinho had a black mop of hair, everything was good and healthy. Frank Lampard was scoring goals from a very advanced attacking midfield role, Didier Drogba had become a world class striker and Chelsea seemed to run away with the Premier League when April's spring's gambolling lambs had just appeared for the first time.

Mourinho's hair is a whiter and greyer shade, the chin thick with increasingly noticeable tufts of stubble, a man who looks out of his dug out  staring daggers at all who may pass him. He sits there hunched and haunted, still convinced that the evil spirits are out to get him and indeed there is a full blooded conspiracy against him.

A couple of weeks ago Mourinho seemed to quite literally see the red mist. Sensing that one of the opposition's coaches had deliberately wound him up and made fun of him, Jose flipped by dashing angrily after his man, threatening to create a civil war if United dared to lose. But then he calmed down, saw everything in a much sober perspective because he privately knew that he was never going to win any battles.

Today though the hierarchy at Manchester United have spoken and it's safe to say that they're livid. What on earth possessed them to appoint this sour, sullen man with a permanent grudge against anybody who challenged him on any subject. It's frightening to think what Sir Matt Busby would have made of Jose since Sir Matt was the gentle and reasonable one, the complete pacifist, the man who smoothed out all the wrinkles and internal conflicts with the minimum fuss. Busby would have probably told Mourinho to quietly leave and then hand him the inevitable P45.

This all seems a ghastly and grisly episode in the history of this world famous, globally loved football team. There is a nasty and acrid smell of terrible mismanagement that could have been avoided much sooner. Mourinho must have known the immense size of his job and the responsibility that came with it. But then the defeats started coming and the shattering 3-1 defeat to Liverpool on Sunday was somehow preordained. Jose had to go and the line had to be drawn in the sand.

Now of course United are rudderless, drifting precariously although in no immediate danger of sinking. The captain is still steering the ship but he may need to change direction sooner rather than later. United have always had those awkward moments in their life when managers are chopped and changed and nothing seems to flow. Perhaps they need a decent sextant to guide them properly.

When Sir Matt Busby left United there was a dreadful flapping and commotion as both Wilf McGuinness and Frank O' Farrell were entrusted with this most daunting of assignments. For a number of seasons United were neither here nor there, a team slipping and sliding ominously before heading for horrific obscurity and then relegation to the old Second Division towards the end of the 1970s.

Then there was David Sexton, wonderfully philosophical about the Beautiful Game with radical ideas as to how the way should be played. There was Tommy Docherty, a man who some might have led you to believe had something of the roguish gangster about him. Docherty was a refreshing breath of air but when United met Southampton of the old Second Division in the 1976 FA Cup Final, Docherty didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Football management has always been littered with trap doors and minefields. But you'd probably be forgiven for thinking that it does need several back up contingency plans if it goes all wrong. It is hard to know what Mourinho is thinking of at the moment. The chances are that he won't be inconsolable because the vast amounts of money he may be receiving as a result of his departure will only leave him cackling like Vincent Price in one of those epic, blood sucking films. Oh to be a fly on the wall in the Jose Mourinho living room tonight. Seasons greetings Jose.