José the Blushing Prom Queen

Ushered in under the romance of flash bulbs that illuminate from the heavens of the Santiago Bernabéu, the elegant José Mourinho danced around the technical area, majestically covering every square inch while puling the 11 strings of Internazionale into treble history. In the wings awaited Europe's potential suitors, clamouring for a moments eye contact from the vacant gaze of Mourinho, whom once again leaves them seduced to the point of salavating at the prospect of courting the special one. What a bloody dream boat.

The final act itself was further proof of Mourinho's tactical prowess, having outclassed former mentor, Louis Van Gaal, almost from the moment the referee blew the whistle. It was as though the whole thing was staged, with Mourinho being the orchestrator in the middle, resigned to an imment fate of glory that awaited in 90 minutes. 

Inter simply shut up shop. Satisfied with allowing a lackluster Bayern attack, that was sorely missing French forward Frank Ribbery, to enjoy the majoirity of possesion and terriroty, until they ran out of ideas. Robben, who unlike Ribbery managed to resist the overtures of ladies of the night, probed away, but resembled an eager child relentlessly pounding the ball against a brick wall.

I would go as far to say that this was a boring final. On a side note, for actual entertaining football, where tactics were seeminlgy thrown out of the window, Blackpool's 3-2 triumph over Cardiff was far more rewarding. But, with Mourinho's stiflling tactics, which we have seen time and time before, lay a trap ready to pouce into action. It may not have been the spectacle every fan hopes for in European Cup Finals, but Mourinho's team, with expert precision and speed broke from the monotonous, with two breath taking goals from Diego Milito. Had it not been for these two special moments, I would have felt thoroughly depreived of value, just as I had when Manchester United pinched the drab FA Cup Final against Liverpool in 1996. At least Liverpool could boast that they looked like a bunch of barber shop quartets, in their white suits.
 
Between the eternity of time that existed between the two goals, the only eventful occassions were when Mourinho was either prowling around his technical area, so desperately willing his side on he was prepared to be the ball boy. Or, when he decided that Robben was just to bloody cute, that he needed to give him a quick cuddle. The slow motion replay of the warm embrace was enough to make you want to squeeze the little dutch man too, ahhhh.

Eventually, the Germans were put out of their misery by the final whistle, which signaled the end of Inter's long wait of 45 years for a European Cup. For Massimo Moratti, the Inter President, who for the last two seasons has had the pleasure of wining and dinning Mourinho, heart break awaits. As with so often is the case, this queen has attracted the envious attentions of rival suitors.

With flirtations in England and Italy now forgotten, the obvious suitor to swoop in and win Mourinho's affection would be Real Madrid. However, given Real Madrid's chronic inability to consummate anything nearing long term, I would foresee it being an abusive relationship that ends after a year or maybe two, at which point, Ferguson will probably have Old Trafford ready for him to take over the reins.