Jose Mourinho's shock departure from Chelsea is the soap equivalent of JR Ewing exiting Dallas.
He was amusing with his suave-bad-guy caricature; his arrogant villainy made other dull Premiership managers look like, well, dull Premiership managers; he was theman we loved to hate albeit in an Alan Rickman-as-Sheriff-of-Nottingham-way.
But don't allow a nostalgic mist to Jose-tint the glasses.
Mourinho was a complete prick.
His opening assertion of his own specialness was vile, but to watch him crow after winning was sickening. It was not just offensive to fans and neutrals, but an insult to his peers.
All that, however, was nothing to his unbearable whining every time something went wrong.
You can argue that much of it was funny - and yes it was, plus it provided endless hours of pub chat. That I'll miss, but his shameful nadir was the night in Barcelona when he claimed referee Anders Frisk had been approached and influenced by Frank Rijkaard at half-time.
The subsequent hate campaign against him saw Frisk retire early from the sport.
Mourinho may be loved by Chelsea fans and by his players. He is certainly a master tactician - although the brand of football he fostered was hardly eye-catching - and his record is one every manager envies.
Oh, I'll miss him alright.
But English football gains more than it loses when it waves goodbye to him.
