ANDREW FIFIELD PREMIER LEAGUEWE DON'T know much about Roman Abramovich. He may have been in our lives for almost five years now but his manners and methods remain almost a complete mystery, his inscrutability encapsulated in that curiously gormless expression he sports in his corporate box on match-days at Stamford Bridge.

Is he transfixed at the epic human drama unfurling beneath him or is he, like everyone else in the ground, just plain bored? Clearly we need to be told.

It is tempting to speculate on how a man who could afford to eat Fabergé eggs for breakfast unwinds at the end of a long day. But, despite his penchant for dress-down jeans and jumper-combos, it is probably safe to assume one hobby that doesn't feature on the Abramovich weekly planner is perusing the messages on Chelsea Chat, the fans' section of his club's official website.

And a good job, too. If he had logged on at almost any point last week, he might have been perturbed at the nature of the comments being directed at his manager, the perpetually hangdog Avram Grant, who one poster suggested had "all the charm of a dead donkey's dongler". Another had changed his user name to the rather more pointed "F***offgrant" while a third urged John Terry to "twat" the embattled head coach at the next training session.

Chelsea are to be congratulated in encouraging free speech - not a phrase I ever envisaged writing, admittedly - but even though the internet rabble-rousers should have been partially appeased by Saturday's trouncing of a feeble West Ham, the prevailing mood in west London remains sourer than curdled cream.

In fact, the last week has been rather like the fractious fag-end of the Jose Mourinho era. The players are revolting - tell us something we don't know - the coaching staff are at daggers drawn and the much-discussed but never-seen Frank Arnesen is hatching Machiavellian plots in some darkened room.

Grant, meanwhile, blunders blindly on, lashing out at the press for their "disrespect" while doing nothing to dispel the suspicion that he would struggle to run a bath, let alone a top four Premier League club.

Quite what Abramovich thinks of all this anybody's guess. In the absence of any public declarations, we have been forced to extract meaning in the most banal behaviour: a trip to a reserve game last week represented a ringing endorsement of Grant, according to some, while pictures of the Russian chatting to Andriy Shevchenko led to others concluding he was sounding out senior players on the manager's future.

The truth is nobody knows exactly what is going on. One of the effects of clubs being run by lone benefactors, rather than traditional boards, is that decisions become that much less predictable: managers are hired and fired on whims, players are signed on the basis of a throwaway comment from some unashamedly self-serving agent who wouldn't recognise moral integrity if it seized him by the lapels of his shiny Savile Row suit. In this particular power play, reason and logic really only have walk-on roles.

This actually works to Grant's advantage. It is much easier to convince one all-powerful owner of your worth rather than six or seven sceptical directors, so provided the relationship with Abramovich holds firm - and there are no indications that cracks are developing yet, with Chelsea still fighting for silverware on three fronts - he is probably safe.

It all goes to show that, in the Premier League at least, managers have to be as adept at networking as at coaching. In this sense, Grant is a master. You can tell he is a good politician because he doesn't seem to have fallen out with anybody, ever. The Israeli seems blessed with the sort of personality that invites cosy platitudes: if you found him in bed with your wife, you would probably end up saluting his taste in pyjamas.

The ability to cosy up to those in power sets Grant apart from the likes of Rafael Benitez, whose clumsy handling of Liverpool's American owners has put his position in jeopardy, and both Arsène Wenger and Alex Ferguson, who are too established to care who they upset. He also makes a striking contrast with his Chelsea predecessor, who was no Special One when it came to diplomacy.

So F***offgrant and his blue-blooded cyber buddies, John Terry and the sceptics in the corridors of power at Stamford Bridge can vent their spleen, stamp their feet and gnash their teeth all they like.

If the old adage is true, and it is not what you know but who that is important, Grant has nothing to fear. His enigmatic friend in a high place will see to that.In the Premier League, managers have to be as adept at networking as at coaching