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Mourinho: The 15 Year Plan

Started on 20 May 2014 by fmhunter / First Post
Latest Reply on 31 July 2014 by pokarioboy / Last Post
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WOW, I didn't think there could be any more plot twists.
Oh excellent writing once again i can't get enough of this story it's f*cking good
Oh, my, GOD!!! MOARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
loving this story who will mourinho got to next
EVERYONE: Thanks guys for your kind words :)
stop it. Please. This is exasperatingly good.
BEST DAMN STORY :O DAMNNNNN
Hamoudi: Thanks mate...I think ;)
AS4: Wow, cheers buddy!
Ive been away from the site for the last few days so ive just read this and omfg this is honestly the best thing ive read since ive been on this website. Its so fucking controversial. Margot Robbie was a great addition to the story i could definetely see her playing an important role as mourinhos lover or something lol i wonder if we will see more of her? Anyway man this desreves all the praise its getting, please keep it up, Its like some sort of fucking james bond movie! You seem to have taken manager stories to another level, will be hard to match!

#11: A Coach Above The Sea | 20 September 2014




For a man who was destined for death less than two weeks ago, a luxury ocean view villa in the Maldives is no hardship, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't missing my normal life. My persona revolves around the game of football, managing people, being around athletes – here, there is nothing like that.

After speaking to Jorge straight after being set free, he understood the seriousness of this situation and agreed that life away from football was the only way that I could live from now on. He asked why we don't just have Dmitry killed – but that opens a can of worms in itself. Firstly, who's going to do it? And secondly, Dmitry is a man who has many contacts, should he die and I stroll back into European football, I'm a dead man regardless.

I wake up every morning the same way, looking out over the pure turquoise sea with a cup of coffee and a cigarette. I can see the attraction, and why every man and his dog in general life would want to come and live here on an infinite budget. It's blissful, but for me there is no thrill, and a Saturday afternoon there isn't even a mention of football among the locals – just Sangria and sunbathing.

Fair enough, why add the stress of football to your life if all you know is peace and tranquility? For me, the answer is simple. Football is a religion, not a game. I don't pray to a god, I pray to the stadiums, the pitches, the equipment and the people. I've been lucky enough to have experienced some incredible things over the years and intend to one day get back into management, but it won't be for a very, very, very long time. It makes me very sad.

I am living here all alone. The unbearable thing is that because of my sons age, he can't be trusted not to tell someone where I am – as news travels faster than the speed of sound in Monaco. He has moved back to Setubal to live with my father for the moment – they know that I'm alive, Junior has been told I'm on holiday. It's a very complicated situation. As far as Jorge has told me, the media think I'm on a 'vacation' after being sacked for breach of contract. The last time I checked, there was nothing in the small print that said shagging the chairman's wife was a sackable offence. I'll be sure to go over any in the future with a fine-toothed comb.

I get up and get dressed, Jorge had my clothes sent over from Monaco. I have everything I need now to live happily, other than company. Jorge tried ringing Matilde but she wouldn't answer, she's changed all of her contact details that's why. The bitch can rot in hell for all I care. It is my son and my immediate family that are the focus of my attention at the moment. I email my father each day to check on everything.

I walk down the steps at the side of my villa and begin to stroll along the beach. Before I know it I've been walking for half an hour, but the beautiful white sand and views mean that fatigue in this place is no metaphorical object. I can hear children shouting and playing – it was this sound that made me turn and look upward. Above sea level there is a school playing field, and all I see is white posts.

Frantically, I ran up the banking and rocky terrain to find a kids football match. 2 coaches on each touchline and parents supportively watching their children battle it out for the pride of a Saturday – and the bragging rights at school on Monday.


Enthralled by live football, I walk over to stand behind the parents, observing the game.

“What is the score?” I politely asked a lady in front of me who was cheering her son on.

“3-0 to the yellow team.” she said, looking down at her watch. She was American.

“About 15 minutes left to play.” she added, before turning and looking at me, registering my face at least thrice before making judgment.

“Wow sir, you look an awful lot like Jose Mourinho! Talk like him t...”

It was at this point she realised, though my bushy beard had been good for disguise in recent weeks. Seeing that she was either about to scream or shout everyone's attention onto me, I decided to cut the chances dead.

“Don't say another word...” I muttered before she could alert everyone.

“Thank you, for the score.” I added.

Thankfully, she kept quiet. Though it wasn't long before all I could hear was the word 'Mourinho' and parents from all angles of the support were pointing me out to their partners.

I had been seen, I was the centre of everyones attention, and there was no point in walking away. I stepped over the 'Respect' barrier, and onto the touchline, I tapped the coach of the losing green team on the shoulder.

He turned, and his expression was that of a child on Christmas morning and a fainting woman combination at my very being.

He couldn't speak. Before he could, I decided to offer my hand in help. They have about 12 minutes to recover three goals.

“Please, this is not my place, but I'll offer a lot of advice. Pull your number 10 from alongside to just behind your striker, the number 9. Go with 3 in defence and push your full-backs forward so they make wingers. This way you're playing 3-5-1-1 instead of 5-3-2. You are too defensive and need to recover three goals in the last 10 minutes!”

He took on board my suggestions and made the changes. A goal for the greens quickly followed, and another, and another. The final whistle blew at 3-3 and the young kids on the green team were overjoyed.

I returned back down the rocks and onto the beach before the coach could single me out as the reason behind their astonishing comeback. Great teams don't make great coaches, great coaches make great teams – and that was certainly true in this instance.


As soon as I walked away from the football pitch and it was out of my sight, I felt low. Simply watching some local kids play for pride has put fire in my stomach again – it's an incredible feeling. Masterminding such an unimportant comeback has restored my ego.

I am the best coach in the world, and I don't much care how, but I'm going to return to Europe safely, I'm going to get my family back and I'm going to manage a football club. I can't live without the job.

Watch this space. I, Jose Mourinho, am going to fulfill my 15 year plan whether the world likes it or not. Nothing, nothing can stop me now.
Great writing, i really enjoyed that :)
I want MOOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEE.
That was beautiful! Really enjoying your writing mate - I want morrrre
wow is all i can say
EVERYONE: As always, thank you all for your kind words and support toward this story. Means a lot!

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