Waiting In Vain

“Good evening, Mr Redknapp – we've been expecting you. Stay where you are, we'll send the lift down. No, no, don't worry about the car, we'll have someone park it for you. Remember to pop the window up – this isn't a drive-thru you know. Anyway, welcome back to the top table, it really is so good of you to join us again. I think you'll find everything much the same as you left it. Now then – waiter! Some drinks for our guest plea... oh, my apologies Senior Benitez...”

The above mixture of stock punchlines and clichéd character sketch is my own ham-fisted attempt at demonstrating the jarring disparity in reaction to the Premier League's two most recent managerial appointments. If dear old Harry Redknapp's return to top flight duty last week was somewhat less than surprising – supporters having been chanting his name during the dying hours of Mark Hughes' reign – Rafa Benitez's near-simultaneous reanimation was anything but. The re-emergence of Sandbanks' finest was always but a matter of time; Benitez's return – to an ominously chilling reception – was truly a shocker.

In a way having this pair of former favourites back in charge of Premier League clubs feels a bit like a whole bunch of recent history didn't happen, that we've really just been treading footballing water since they left their previous positions, so interwoven are their idiosyncrasies in the stitching of the Premier League era. Of course they've only stepped back into the milieu precisely because of recent events, namely the dismissals of Hughes and Roberto Di Matteo by QPR and Chelsea respectively. The scenarios they find themselves in, however, could not be more different.

Redknapp's appointment as QPR boss has been, if not the stuff of terrace dreams, then certainly a cause for renewed optimism around Loftus Road. His début game in charge saw the Hoops pick up their first clean sheet away from home in nearly 18 months, hinting that his new charges are already pulling their socks up. A similarly tight rearguard has also been the overriding characteristic of Rafa Benitez's first week in charge at Stamford Bridge... on the field at least. In the stands, the Spaniard’s reception has been eerily reminiscent of Manchester United's 1993 visit to Galatasaray, a Balkan away day remembered not-so-fondly for baton charges, tunnel brawls and the infamous “Welcome to Hell” banners adorning the airport hallways of Istanbul. Chelsea fans' own attempts at placard-based intimidation have been somewhat more prosaic – “Rafa Out” not holding quiet the same air of violent menace – but the underlying message remains basically the same: you're not wanted here.

It's a confusing situation from the get-go really. On the one hand there's the Rafa us neutrals know and (sometimes) love, the affable David-Gest-with-a-whiteboard figure, open and passionate but definitely vibrating on some frequency others can't quite set the dial to; warm-hearted, ever-so-slightly nuts, the kind of man who one imagines carries a selection of pens in his shirt pocket at all times, like a happy yet vaguely unhinged IT professor. And yet the turmoil of his appointment feels like some basic miscalculation in the binary composition of the season, a dreadful glitch in the very nature of football itself. Rafa managing Chelsea? Don't be so silly, he wouldn't dream of it! Look, he even said so himself. And yet here he is, doing his utmost to say the right things and act the right way in front of a baying audience who support the one team that got under his skin more than any other, the club which allowed us a rare glimpse into the dark side of the man.

Harry meanwhile has no such popularity issues, his sunshine-after-the-rain arrival creating a palpable atmospheric shift, spurring a renewed belief that despite their woeful start, he may be able to summon enough gumption amongst Rangers' ragtag posse of misfiring millionaires to salvage their season. He may not be everyone's cup of Tetley's, but he's nothing if not effective. Benitez's arrival, by way of contrast, has felt more like a unwelcome meteor crashing through the west London ozone layer, its deep impact sending a tidal wave of torrential disillusion crashing through Fulham Broadway.

Speaking of showers, one of Benitez's key tasks will be to get some return out of the goal-shy Fernando Torres, Chelsea's record signing and a man whose persistent and passable impression of a haunted Barbie doll has left supporters' hands a-wringing. Not that any of this animosity and pressure will necessarily bother Benitez unduly. Never a man short of self-confidence, 'Factgate' aside not much seems to faze our Rafa. He certainly hasn't been afraid to put his head above the parapet thus far. Despite his contract running only until next June (or whenever Pep Guardiola decides he's had his fill of coffee mornings with Fox Mulder), Benitez has openly stated his intention to gain a further twelve month extension. Good luck with that – although setting his stall out in such fashion does feel like Classic Benitez, always a man wanting to plan and build, favouring structure and order over ramshackle riffing.

Which does beg questions as to why he took the job in the first place. Cynics would point to numerous reasons – three million of them, in fact, spread generously over a six month period. Or perhaps he just really, really loves a challenge? Well, he's sure got one. But taking on the role of Chelsea manager is really more dark night of the soul than bright new horizon. Imagine that first meeting with Abramovich! What a feeling, heading into a Bond villain's lair; a sense of doomed wonderment pervading the air, dark-suited henchmen never more than a few feet away as a megalomaniac super-villain (white cat optional) stands at the opposite foot of a trick bridge crossing a piranha pond. Abramovich wouldn't have flinched, calming laying out his plans for world domination in apocalyptic detail, inviting Benitez to stand and watch, helpless as a wall of omniscient high-def screens spewed forth images of the West collapsing, interspersed with snippets of Chelsea fans venting into Sky Sports microphones and a satellite feed of a sad Di Matteo walking his dog. Probably.

One would imagine Redknapp's appointment to be notably less death-defying. While some may harbour a disliking the man himself, I suspect most of the QPR faithful fully accept that he may be one of very few managers around with the necessary footballing chutzpah to heave their ailing side back up the table. No, Harry's issues are very much of the on-field variety, but then he is a man used to playing the saviour role. When appointed Portsmouth manager in March 2002, the club sat 15th in the Championship yet just fourteen short months later were winging their way to the big time. His highs and lows since (both sporting and personal) have been well documented, not least by Harry himself, as his oft-mocked but nonetheless true “two-from-eight” soundbite will testify to.

For the last few weeks QPR have been increasingly derided and mocked as hopeless failures-in-waiting; a stumbling, bumbling jumble of overpaid mercenaries and Championship-level journeymen; a mish-mash of drifting quasi-talents and mid-level huff-puffers. Now that Redknapp is in charge, many opinions are already on the turn, tunes changing from grimly pessimistic to “well they'll probably be fine now”, which says a hell of a lot about the motivational talents of one man.

Yet for all Harry's pep and persuasion, the hard math doesn't make for pretty arithmetic. QPR are already eight points adrift of the safety line and remain winless with over a third of their fixtures played. Chelsea, meanwhile, sit six points off the league's summit and – despite sitting on the brink of imminent Champion's League collapse – are very much in contention for major honours once again. But that won't be enough, for Chelsea's fans feel betrayed, taken for mugs via their love-hate relationship with the club’s owner, knowing that however unpopular his choice of coach may be, he can always take the whole thing away just by cancelling the cheque. Even money you won't be seeing any “Roman Out” banners at the Bridge for a while yet.

And so the merry-go-round continues to spin unabated – two managers thrown to the turf, two more hopping back on. All the fun of the fair I suppose, but we already know who will be going home the happiest. Picture a scenario where Chelsea finish, say, fourteen places and forty points ahead of their neighbours. While the latter's manager will be paraded through the streets a hero, the former's will almost certainly still be hounded out of town. That's how things are in west London these days. I say just sit back, relax and enjoy the ride. Welcome back, Harry; more ice please, waiter.

~ Matt

https://twitter.com/MattAwayNow

The Lame Duck

I was feeling bad last Saturday afternoon. A night (and morning) of drinking, combined with a few restless hours of couch-bound half-sleep, had left me groggy and slightly frazzled, my head feeling roughly akin to an aeroplane seat cushion following a long haul flight spent underneath Eric Pickles. By the time my body was readjusting itself to the world of the living – ten to five in the evening, to be precise – Mark Hughes may have been wishing he could similarly disappear from view.

It's been intriguing to watch 'the Hughes situation' (as Glenn Hoddle would probably term it) unfold over the course of the past 72 hours. Following QPR's 3-1 home shaming by Southampton, Hughes' immediate response was to produce an admirable post-match performance in front of the awaiting cameras. Bullish and shot through with a stern-eyed bravado, it was infinitely more solid than anything his back four had managed in the previous two months. Credit to the man – if he was experiencing thoughts of desertion, he was giving off very little sign of it. Nonetheless, the media speculation as to his level of job security has been shuffling uncomfortably close to DEFCON 1 ever since. He hasn't quite arrived at Steve Kean levels of public blood-lust just yet, but Sir Alex he certainly ain't.

The last three days have seen a drip-drop of mixed messages emanating form the vicinity of W12. Tapping away at my keyboard on Monday evening, fingertips flipping between barren word document and text coverage of West Ham v Stoke (perhaps the dullest use yet for the internet – although I'll never need an excuse to remind myself of this contender), rumours abounded that Mark Hughes was to be relieved of his position of QPR boss following high-level 'crunch talks' (a term I'm a big fan of, by the way – something in it's visceral onomatopoeia, the definitive break, something irreparably cracking in two, never to be rejoined. They aren't called 'wobble chats' or 'flop yaks' for nothing you know).

Speaking of sounds, conflicting ones continued to pour fourth as the rumour mill went into full churn. Despite a trickle of semi-convincing assurances later that night that Hughes would not be relieved of his woes – sorry, position – contradictory evidence was presented the following day as London's Evening Standard reported that Hughes had been asked to quit. He refused, apparently, and without chairman Tony Fernandes on hand to pull the lever, Hughes opted for at least a few more torturous nights on death row.

Hughes' fate now struggles to mask it's own queasy air of inevitability; his departure becoming an entity of it's own: something slowly forming and coming to life, cells multiplying and dividing, no longer an abstract concept but rather a real, living, breathing thing. Of course, post-Southampton, the Hughes sacking narrative really built up a head of steam. Note, for example, the BBC football front page on Saturday night: '“I will not quit”, says Hughes'. A defiant statement for sure, but also a telling one, indicating the loss of faith in his managerial abilities was now reaching some kind of anti-employability event horizon. But it also suggested that the canny Welshman had quite possibly fallen foul of one of journalism’s most sadistic bluffs.

In the hit US political drama/liberal wet-dream The West Wing, White House press secretary C.J. Cregg is asked during a routine press conference if the president had considered a particular course of action (a lame duck Congressional session, to be precise) to avoid some upcoming legislative hoo-ha or another. Knowing full well that he hadn't – it was a silly idea and anyway, Martin Sheen's President Barlet was a bloody genius, OK? – but aware that she could not prove this for sure, she offers to check and report back. Both she and her colleagues know she has fallen into a particularly sneaky journalistic bear-trap, because the moment the commander-in-chief receives this enquiry the notion in question will automatically, unavoidably enter his mind. He will have considered it – fleetingly, and perhaps even unintentionally, but consider it he will most certainly have.

On Saturday evening the BBC asked Hughes if he “expected to still be in charge” following their latest defeat – an open-ended enquiry, not intended to judge exactly whose hands his future may be in, but one which nonetheless carefully placed a tantalising physiological probe. Others went further, openly asking Hughes if he would abandon ship, their initial questions coming vacuum wrapped with their own self-fulfilling answers. Step 1: Hughes is asked if he is intending to jack it all in and book himself on the first train back to Wrexham. Step 2: Hughes says he isn't, but the seed is sown, and even if he really isn't, it barely matters - a “will-he, won't-he” narrative is born anyway. “I don't run away from challenges”, responded Hughes, as the thought of running away from a challenge imperceptibly wormed it's way inside of his cranium like an unwelcome hanger-on at a party (albeit one where no-one's having any fun, the drugs have run out and the hosts are being disdainfully berated for just lying about the place, squandering their reputations and generally not giving a fuck).

Watching Saturday's game hungry and hungover as I was, it was obvious even through my hazy peepers that Saints manager Nigel Adkins was remaining disarmingly calm and collected in the face of growing media speculation over his own position. Adkins strikes me as a man of cool, trim focus – the kind of soul who, following a Friday night bender, would be up and about at the crack of dawn, doing his stretches in the hall before departing for a quick 2km run, whilst the rest of us gingerly sip water and pull the covers back over our heads, wishing the outside world to disappear. He's one of those people: all fitness and zing, a wet-eared deputy head with a charming lack of cynicism. I don't understand them, but I hold a grudging respect for them. Not for Nigel the cruel machinations of the press pack – this is, after all, a man not afraid to throw down some verse during a routine post-match interview.

When he isn't busting out the balladry himself, Adkins has got his class leaping on the table, seemingly allowing his own methodology to rub off on his team. Like Arsene Wenger when he first arrived on these shores, Adkins has the look of a man more likely to advise you on your stock options than to drill Nathaniel Clyne on the nuances of the offside trap. But also like Wenger, he seems intent on instilling a cohesive philosophy into his charges (although he could do with splashing out on a centre-half or two come January), and the prettier the results, the better. Following a brutal start to the campaign (which included meetings with last years top three in the opening four matches) the Saints, judging by their neat, triangulated pass-n-invent display on Saturday, are in pole position to become this seasons' Swansea. I'm not altogether sure where that leaves Swansea – last season's Blackpool? 2000's Barnsley? – but they seem to be having a lovely old time under Michael Laudrup so I'm sure they're none too fussed either way.

Adkins is of course a rookie in Premier League terms, as opposed to Hughes who, like his Everton counterpart David Moyes, can no longer be considered an up-and-coming, saucer-eyed (literally, in the latter's case) dugout prodigy, but rather a fully fledged, experienced manager. And with such experience comes the inevitability of being on the receiving end of a good old fashioned sacking every once in a while. Writing for the Guardian in 2011 about the similar circumstances of Steve Bruce's dismissal from Sunderland, Barney Ronay argued that a manager is these days little more than “a patsy, a head presented on a stake at regular intervals as an emblem of progress”, and so true has this been of QPR in recent years. A project grimly decorated with the blood splatter of boardroom fall-outs and behind-the-scenes power struggles, every few months or so the manager was dismissed – a convenient scapegoat, a move often more political than sporting (although no-one really needs the veneer of 'politics' to give Ian Dowie the boot).

But then a funny thing happened. It may be by design or pure chance, but QPR seem to have been getting their sackings right of late, with each recent touchline prowler performing their function then departing. Neil Warnock finally got the Hoops back in the big time, but when it became obvious that his old-school stylings weren't going to give them much hope of survival, he was cast adrift to be replaced by Hughes. Sparky had experience of the pressures of modern Premier League era, but perhaps crucially offered a cooler alternative to the Yorkshireman's terrier growl. When Manchester City were bought on transfer deadline day 2008, Hughes famously continued with his round of golf, pausing only between holes to check his phone to see which superstar forward he would be greeting at training the next day.

So it seems – much like in his playing days – that Hughes' composure shouldn't be questioned. But if Tony Fernandes' goal at Loftus Road is long-term stability, that now more than ever means staying in the Premier League. Loyalty is all well and good, but for QPR to drop back down to the Championship they battled so desperately to escape would perhaps set the club back years. One certainly can't envisage Adel Taarabt relishing another nine months of Tuesday night trips to Bristol City, sat alone on the coach as it rumbles back east along the M4 at midnight, just his headphones and thoughts of rejected transfer requests of yore for company.

Obviously by the time you read this Hughes could have been sacked, which may indicate that Fernandes is either another trigger-happy firebrand or that he has acted swiftly to stop the rot before it fatally gnaws away at his team's hopes of survival. Or he might still have a job. Whatever Hughes' fate, I would like to think that Adkins is this morning once again waking up bright-eyed and bushy-vocabed, still in a job, still thinking in paeans not prose, lacing his trainers and readying himself for another day of good vibes and neato positivity. Now that I think about it, those sound like just the things QPR need. Maybe he should wait by his phone. Actually, he probably doesn't have one. He looks the type.

~ Matt

https://twitter.com/MattAwayNow