The Brass Donkey

André Villas-Boas has been a victim of circumstance throughout his short managerial career (which, incredibly, is still less than three years old). After a successful spell at Académica, guiding a seemingly doomed club to the warm and fuzzy candyland of mid-table mediocrity, Villas-Boas found himself inheriting an excellent Porto squad that responded instantly and enthusiastically to his tactical philosophies, and with the addition of only two key players went on to win four trophies with an imperious undefeated league campaign to boot. Admittedly, Villas-Boas doesn’t come off particularly victimy in that circumstance – more like a man who rummages through his pockets for his bus fare and finds the keys to a fully stocked ice cream van instead – but if you’re going to be precocious, it’s probably best to do it in a non-threatening, Roberto Martínez kind of way, rather than by bulldozing all before you with nary a hair out of place; otherwise, people might begin to have unreasonable expectations about your abilities. For instance, someone might think you capable of instantly revolutionising an ageing squad who’ve had their every molly so coddled that asking them to try moving and thinking a bit more during games is viewed as an unworkable insult (Hiya Roman! Hiya pal!).

So Villas-Boas arrived at Spurs not as André, a talented if flawed coach with a long future ahead of him, but as AVB – a weird media personality not entirely of his own design. If his critics are to be believed, AVB is an inept tactical genius, an articulate simpleton, a humble braggart.

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