“In the short time I lived in London, when I coached Chelsea, I came to understand one thing: two Englishmen make a people, 57 million Italians don’t. This is why I’ll return to England, if given the chance. To work, that is…”

Tired and disappointed, Claudio Ranieri was in a t-shirt and shorts, and was heading towards his boat on an early July day. It had spent all winter on the shore, but was now in the dock and ready for a new adventure, for which the former Chelsea, Roma, Juventus and Inter manager had prepared an itinerary, stashed in a folder underneath his arm.

Called up by Greece to steer the 2004 European Champions back on the right path, the Italian had failed miserably, and arguably should never have accepted the offer. The sea wasn’t just going to wash away his Greek experience: this wasn’t the first time that Ranieri had his passion for football get the better of him, and ended up in a trap.

For a man who has coached Napoli, Fiorentina, Inter, Juventus, Rome and Parma, it is surprising that Ranieri has so often been spurned by a country that could have acclaimed him as a prophet. For every time, he turned up and made things better, only for the thumb to always turn downwards: a nice guy, even exquisite; a gentleman, but a loser. The door’s right there, sorry to have inconvenienced you.

And he would go quietly, as he always had. May as well emigrate, see where that leads. Spain, then; Valencia and Madrid. Two beautiful cities, ideal to work in. Winning isn’t an all-consuming obsession, doing well is enough. And he does well, further enriching his cultural and professional baggage, though it’s never enough for him, as it never is for someone who is as curious and self-respecting as he.

Choosing to cross the Channel, Ranieri quickly fitting into London life, becoming almost indistinguishable from the locals. There he would remain until another owner would decide that he wasn’t glam enough. Coming from new money, the “New Russian” Roman Abramovich was hardly compatible with the calm, stabilising presence which the Italian represented.  

A major financial overhaul would follow, where merely being good, even very good, was nowhere near enough. In came the pied piper, a certain Jose. The rest is history.

Off Ranieri went, this time, where the bizarrely shared a name with none other than the Prince (Rainier). There, too, however, the modern world would catch up. Big money in the shape of Dmitry Ryboblev would send him packing, despite a good showing in his only full season there. Either you can come up with special effects… or you’re nobody. Which is probably what drove him to accept that Athenian challenge.

Back to the dock, and to the slow man in shorts who is getting ready to weigh anchor. Suddenly, the phone rings: “Claudio, an English club is after you, it’s in the North East [really? Good job geography isn’t a prerequisite to becoming an agent!]. Leicester City had already asked Cesare Prandelli, but he didn’t think they were quite up to his standards”.