If there were a poll to find the most arrogant and self-opinionated football manager since Brian Clough, then Jose Mourinho would undoubtedly be number one.

It has been all too easy down the years to forget that football is not actually war and is supposed to be entertainment. Modern football managers tend to the dour and serious. One of them, Arsène Wenger, looks as if he should be lecturing in engineering. Steve McClaren might once have said something colourful and exciting – it’s often difficult to tell – but he has managed to suppress any urge to do so since becoming England coach. Modern football is a very serious business. The talk is of pressure, of squillions of pounds and the burden of expectation. The days are long gone when a manager could complain, like Ron Atkinson: “I never comment on referees and I’m not going to break the habit of a lifetime for that prat.”

Mourinho might have used modern methods on the training pitch, but at the postmatch press conference he was a welcome return to the good old days. And what wonderful entertainment he has provided.

He arrived at Stamford Bridge to announce that he was “the Special One”. He then proved it by winning the league twice in successive seasons and providing an endless fund of amusing stories. He was once smuggled into a ground in a laundry basket, his dog become the first immigrant to be turned away from this country in nearly 10 years and his tatty overcoat was the subject of endless discussion on the fashion pages. No woman seemed immune from his charms. Yet there was a serious intent; if nothing else it deflected attention from the club’s poor performances.

He has already said he does not want to manage another English team quite yet; why would he? He walks away from Chelsea with a reputed £17m. In fact, he is so unpredictable that there is only one thing sure about the future – he will not be putting his money into Northern Rock.