While many were celebrating a new arrival in West London on Monday night, Queens Park Rangers’ supporters were popping the champagne corks for a departure. Jose Bosingwa, the smug face of entitled uselessness at Loftus Road, is off to Trabzonspor in Turkey.
Bosingwa, who was always happy to do as little as possible in return for his £60,000 a week wage, will be delighted to know that there’s one more free ride available to him. There are thousands of QPR fans who will happily take the morning off work and drive him to the airport themselves.
If Bosingwa was in any doubt as to his importance to the club’s coming promotion campaign, manager Harry Redknapp was on hand last week to clarify his position.
“He’s got no chance at QPR,” said Redknapp, presumably as he helped to empty Bosingwa’s sock drawer into an open suitcase.
In the interests of balance, it should be said that Bosingwa is far from the only person responsible for QPR’s plight. The blame starts at the top, with Tony Fernandez’s self-destructive and lunatic trolley dash through the transfer market. It seeps down to two managers, Mark Hughes and Redknapp, neither of whom were capable of unifying and motivating Fernandes’ unwieldy squad. Then the blame spreads into the playing staff who were, almost to a man, so utterly pathetic that they should be branded with the word ‘failure’, so that other clubs know to steer clear.
No, it’s not entirely his fault, but Bosingwa, through a very special combination of incompetence, lethargy and a pulsating aura of ‘meh’, will forever be the epitome of everything that went wrong in West London.
The alarm bells began to ring as early as September 2012 when QPR faced Chelsea in the first meeting between Anton Ferdinand and John Terry since The Incident. Prior to kick-off, all the talk had been about the ceremonial handshake and whether QPR’s players would stand in solidarity with Ferdinand and shun Terry.
Now, as football supporters, we’re not stupid. We know that our local rivalries and bitter vendettas are very rarely shared by the players. We know that to many players, this is little more than a job. So all Bosingwa had to do when he trotted past his former club captain was quickly shake his hand. He could even have given him a little smile, if he really felt the need. Stopping to give him a great big hug was just taking the piss. That particular bromantic encounter could easily have waited until they both got behind the velvet rope of whichever ghastly Cristal-serving nightclub earned their patronage that evening. The QPR fans saw it. They knew then that they’d bought a wrong’un.
Towards the end of the season, after scores of laughably wet performances and one refusal to sit on the bench, as if he was better than that and not just lucky to still be involved, he was finished in West London. And yet somehow he managed to find a way to make himself even more unpopular.
Having played his part in the dire goalless draw that saw both QPR and Reading flushed around the u-bend into the Championship, Bosingwa wandered off the pitch, apparently laughing to himself. Quite what it was that Bosingwa found so amusing has yet to be established, but he would have been far wiser holding it in, at least until he got away from all the people running around holding massive TV cameras.
There was a time when Bosingwa was a more than useful footballer. You do not win two Champions League medals with two different clubs if you’re hopeless. But, as anyone who watched him in his final season at Chelsea will testify, whatever it was that drove him to the top of the European game, drove off again and didn’t leave a note.
All you can really say at a time like this is; good luck, Trabzonspor. You’ll need it