“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.
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