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Voldemort in charge of the Death Star: the glorious prospect of Mourinho at PSG

W hat are they going to say about him? That he was a kind man? That he was a wise man? That he had plans? That he sneakily jabbed an opposition coach in the eye during an unseemly touchline melee (that no one wants to see, but also really, really wants to see)?

The faint whisper this week that José Mourinho may be a step closer to managing Paris Saint-Germain has already inspired a wildly overblown response across the many diverse platforms of the overblown football response industry.

Mourinho was quick to deny there has been contact with PSG, at the same time looking delighted just to be back in this kind of José-centred conversation. But it isn’t hard to see why a little standard-issue chatter should have caused such excitement.

Because it takes an act of will to remember that this hasn’t actually happened yet, that European football’s gaudiest empire of dust hasn’t already landed on Mourinho as a solution to its own basic lack of heart, purpose, method, traction. It feels like a bizarre cultural oversight, like Joni Mitchell not performing at Woodstock but the evil version.

Mainly José in Paris is just a mouthwatering prospect, from the basic comedy of Mourinho and Neymar, together at last, lost in hallucinogenic incomprehension to Mourinho striding around the out-grounds of Troyes and Ajaccio like an angry fallen earl, to the terrifying truths you can already hear him spitting into the nearest TV lens when he’s finally sacked.

Who wouldn’t want to see this at PSG after all those doomed experiments with pretending to be nice, or serious, or interested in building something? Here we have an institution taking a last lingering look in the mirror, Joker makeup smeared, and just giving in. This is who we are. Hire the

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