IT IS 11 MONTHS SINCE José Mario Santos Mourinho Felix announced his arrival in England with the words: “I’m not just one out of a bottle. I’m a special one.” Buoyed by his European Cup success with FC Porto — and a further four trophies, including the Uefa Cup, in little more than two years — few dared to argue.

Genie or genius? Mourinho quickly qualified his outrageous opinion. “I’m sorry that I’m a bit arrogant,” he said, “but I am the European champion, I am a top manager.” As the media representatives shared a sharp intake of breath, the first of what was to prove many Mourinho moments this season had passed. The ego had landed.

Today, there will be even fewer detractors. Chelsea’s 2-0 win against Bolton Wanderers on Saturday secured their first league championship in 50 years. Mourinho had again delivered — the Carling Cup was annexed in Cardiff two months ago — and the treble will creep closer if Chelsea can dispose of Liverpool in the second leg of their European Cup semi-final tomorrow.

Love Mourinho, the suave former interpreter with the swarthy looks. “He’s so sexy and yet so vulnerable,” a female tabloid scribe cooed last month. Loathe Mourinho, the dictatorial, referee-baiting poseur. Yet you cannot ignore Mourinho, the instigator, perhaps, of a new era in the Barclays Premiership.

Mourinho’s tactical acumen and the multimillion-pound backing of Roman Abramovich, the Chelsea owner, is an intoxicating brew. That Arsenal and Manchester United have been swatted like flies says much for Mourinho’s impact. He sought respect from day one, demanded it. And he has received it, however grudgingly. It is at a cost. The black hair, only flecked with grey when he switched from Porto, has taken on a silvery hue. And critics still abound, those who despise his high-handed manner, selective amnesia and frequent bouts of pseudo-paranoia. The massive funds at his disposal, they claim, cheapen his achievements. Jealousy is rife.

There are many at Uefa, the sport’s European governing body, who might want to see Chelsea go out of the European Cup. To have Mourinho sour the final in Istanbul on May 25 with his eccentric pouting and posturing would be too much to stomach. To them, the “breath of fresh air” — as he was billed by admirers early in the season — has become a throat- gagging stench.

Yet Mourinho, 42, cares not about the snide remarks of mere mortals. He has attained an almost god-like status in the eyes of Abramovich, Peter Kenyon, the Chelsea chief executive, and the club’s fans. The Portuguese man-of-war has led them into battle and never conceded an inch; beneath the peacock strut of the master of disguise is grit and substance.

Therein lies the secret. Amid the pomp is precision, amid the mayhem is methodology. Few of Mourinho’s peers are as thorough in their preparations. On the surface lies the actor, but scratch it, penetrate the protective shield, and the real deal is revealed. Mourinho takes the flak and his players are free to play football.

Everything, if possible, is kept in-house at Fortress Cobham, the state-of-the-art training ground in Surrey. Mourinho, the mother hen, protects his brood with a ferocity bordering on fanaticism. Loyalty is the key and the bond between superstar players and superstar manager has matured with each on-field victory, each off-the-pitch scrape.

“I have not come here specifically to fight,” Mourinho said on his arrival. “I have come here to win. But at the right moment, if I feel my players, my group and my club are in a situation where they need my help, it’s like family. And they will get it.” When he feels wronged, he retaliates. Against opponents, fellow coaches, the FA, the FA Premier League, Uefa. Anyone.

Carling Cup, now Barclays Premiership. Perhaps European Cup also. A legend? Not yet, but when Oscar Wilde, the 19th-century Irish playwright, passed through a customs checkpoint in New York, he is alleged to have uttered: “I have nothing to declare except my genius.”

At Heathrow airport in June 2004, a similar incident may have occurred.