Joan Washere*

Joan as Policewoman onstage at the Button Factory

I’ve seen  Joan as Police Woman  in concert before. It was about five years ago and I’d heard her first record, Real Life, and was vaguely interested in seeing what she was about. Not interested enough, however, to avoid going to Solas on Wexford Street for a few hours before the gig. By the time I rocked up to Crawdaddy I was more than a little loose and feeling absolutely no pain. What I remember is that she came onstage and balanced some kind of potted plant on her keyboard and started plinking away interminably. Her album featured several musicians, as did her website, but, on this occasion, she was flying solo. Joan’s lack of musicians and my surplus of beverages resulted in my attention wandering from her performance a little bit. Actually, a lot. After a handful of songs, I retired to the bar and, inevitably, left shortly afterwards. It wasn’t her – it was me. Not before being one of those annoying people at the back of a venue who’s chattering away while the band is playing. I hate those people. That night, I was those people.

I know she’s been back several time since but I’ve never revisited JAPW live. Not sure why (guilt or shame at my chitter chattering, perhaps?) but that’s the way it’s rolled. Yet here’s the thing – I love JAPW. That’s to say that I love her albums, I’m not so wild about anyone that takes a plant onstage with them. Her first record was a cracker and the follow-up, To Survive, was as good. The new one, The Deep Field is her best yet. That song Magic, Jesus, how good is that? You don’t have to answer me but I’ll include a link anyway.

A few weeks ago I saw posters announcing that she was coming back to town to perform at the Button Factory. I concluded that five years was long enough and the time was right to revisit JAPW in a live setting.  However, I’m supposed to be studying at the moment. Assignments are pending and so, with a heavy heart, I concluded that my time would be better spent reading about the Saville Report (fun!) and not going to pop concerts (boo!).

But then the lovely people at lecooldublin had a ticket giveaway for the gig and asked people to write to them stating their case as to why the deserved tickets. To my surprise and delight I was the winner and so, last Thursday, I set aside Lord Saville’s riveting report for a splendid evening with Joan Wasser.

First things first. The Button Factory. Apparently it’s in recievership at the moment which is a real shame. Of all of Dublin’s small venues, it’s far and away the best. Sure, Whelans has its history and those new places are shiny and attractive but the Button Factory looks great, has a decent bar at the back, offers fairly decent views to everyone and the sound is generally immaculate. Plus it’s got a great name. What it also had, on Thursday night, was a pair of clowns working the door who took quite a dislike to Lady Phibsborough and I because we were finishing a bag of popcorn before we went in. Don’t know what the problem was with that. He muttered something about it being very busy outside the venue and the space were occupying near the door. We looked up and saw a queue of about six people. Fair enough, I suppose.

Anyway, in we went and moments later, JAPW arrived onstage with two musicians. A drummer and a keyboard player. So that’s two keyboard players and a drummer. Not exactly the Seeger Sessions Band. We took our positions near the back (ok – sitting at the bar at the back) and watched the gig from there. It was fantastic. Now, admittedly, it didn’t sound as good as it did on the record. The records have so much going on layers of instruments that you couldn’t really hope to match with a drum and two keyboards but for what they had at their disposal, they did a sterling job. Now, I’m not really one for remembering setlists but I know that Magic was played early on and that, although she played a lot from the new record, the set was peppered with plenty of songs from the first two records. Although she skipped The Ride which was a surprise. Saying that, it’s rare for me to go to a great gig that the performer hasn’t played one of their most popular songs. That’s quite an accomplishment really. Still, she encored with Real Life which was really beautiful and would have been worth the price of admission had I actually paid the price of admission!

What else can I say about it?  Yes, I stayed at the back to enjoy the gig but it was a very different experience to the last time. I actually listened for a change and it was great. Really great. She played for about 75 minutes, did a song inspired by reading Ulysses, and thanked almost everyone in the venue. No really – the band, the lights, the sound, the tour manager, the venue, the merchandise people, the bar staff and on and on and on. The only person she didn’t thank was the goon at the entrance to the venue. Perhaps he gave out to her for eating popcorn too.

And no – she didn’t have the potted plant with her.

* Hilarious play on words. Her real name is Joan Wasser. I crack me up.

By the way, I pinched that picture from a JAPW message board. Here’s the link to it and more like it.

How I did know.

What an odd, odd film.

Last week I mentioned Broadcast News, a terrific film from the late 80s that was written and directed by James L Brooks. He’s also responsible for Terms of Endearment and As Good as it Gets. All three of those films featured Jack Nicholson in some capacity and the same is true for How Do You Know (no question mark), Brook’s new film co- starring Reese Witherspoon, Paul Rudd and Owen Wilson.

If you’ve seen the weekend’s papers you might know that the film’s taken a bit of a hammering from the critics – apart from in Friday’s Irish Times which gave it 3 stars and, praised its intentions, if not its outcome. Peter Bradshaw in the Guardian was particularly viscous, comparing watching the film to some kind of torture. I went to see it yesterday afternoon and still don’t know what to make of it.

The plot, briefly.

Reese Witherspoon is a US softball athlete. We know she’s good because the first few minutes are shots of her, beginning as a child and moving up to the present day – playing softball. Actually, playing it really well. We learn that Reese used to be great but is a fraction of a second slower than she used to be and, since she’s 31 and obviously over the hill, her coach decides to drop her from the team. Elsewhere, across town somewhere, lovely, friendly, nice guy Paul Rudd who seems to be the CEO of some random corporation has been indicted by the FBI for some kind of random corporation crime of which he knows nothing but is going to be held responsible for. His dad, Jack Nicholson, is kinda his boss too and doesn’t waste time telling Paul how useless he is as a son and a businessman. Paul leaves the office a broken man. Elsewhere Reese has received the bad news and is a broken woman. Can the broken boy and girl find a way to fix themselves (no question mark).

Well, not if Owen Wilson has his way. Wilson plays a baseball star who is also dating Reese’s character. We never get to see how they got together but we do get to see Reese storming out of his apartment several times during the film. Each departure being less plausible than the previous one. A word about Owen Wilson though. He’s great. Really great. And from his first appearance, the film which was a bit disjointed and a bit uneven and completely not engaging, becomes something else. Apparently the salary for the talent in How Do You Know topped fifty million dollars. That’s the maddest thing I ever heard. They should’ve held onto Owen Wilson and spent the rest of the money on developing a script about his character – a vacuous, self absorbed, serial cheating, millionaire playboy. He’s also very very funny. He has all of the best scenes and all the best lines and all the best laughs. He’s also not in the film very much at all which is a real shame.

Actually, it’s unclear whether he’s in the same film as the others because in many ways How Do You Know is three different films, There’s a film about a millionaire athlete who doesn’t see being in a committed relationship and sleeping around as two completely incompatible concepts. Then there’s a film about Reese and Paul – two thirtysomethings trying to find out what it is that they really should be doing now that their previous endeavours have ended. Finally, there’s a family drama starring Jack and Paul where father and son attempt to come to terms with their fractured relationship and deal with the reality that one of them is going to have to go to prison. To prison! Is there anything about having a subplot in a romantic comedy where the male romantic leads has a prison sentence hanging over him that seems a little off-kilter? Jack Nicholson wheezes and shakes through the film finding that his comic touch has completely deserted him. It’s not that he’s bad – not at all – it’s just that he shouldn’t be in this film. None of them should be in this film. In fact, none of them ARE in this film! There’s so little rapport or engagement between the characters in most of the scenes that it’s hard to believe that they knew the cameras were rolling. I mean, this is Paul Rudd, who’s great in everything and Reese Witherspoon who knows her way around a film, and Jack Nicholson, for God’s sake, who doesn’t need me to talk about how great he is. But put them all together and you get a real mishmash of not much at all.

And yet… I liked it. I think I liked it. Admittedly, I was helped in a huge way by Wilson’s character. He’s just very funny. I mean I laughed out loud several times – in fact possibly every time he was on screen. And the film has two excellent ‘hand-written lists on a sheet of paper’ jokes. Not one – two. And the ‘hand written list on a sheet of paper’ joke is one of the hardest gags to pull off in the movies! Plus, and I mean this seriously, there’s a scene in a hospital room that was truly one of the most touching things I’ve seen for a long time. The characters in the scene  were played by Kathryn Hahn (as Paul Rudd’s secretary) and Lenny Venito, two actors that were vaguely familiar to me but but that I can’t quite place. I’m just mentioning them now because in a film with such heavyweight talent, they really shone. The scene is sensitive and emotional and, actually, quite real and by the end of it, there may well have been something in my eye. Of course, they had to go and ruin it by overwriting the scene and extracting almost all of the loveliness from it but when it was good, it was very, very good.

So there we have it. I laughed several times, I cried once and I have no idea if it’s any good at all. It’s not one of those ‘so bad it’s good’ films. It’s one of those ‘I can’t decide if it was any good but it I laughed and I cried and I’m finding I rarely do ether of those at the cinema anymore’ films.

Would I recommend it? Well Owen Wilson is great, the hospital scene is very moving (don’t worry  – there’s no death or anything involved) and, like I said, it’s got two really good ‘hand-written lists on a sheet of paper’ jokes so I guess for those reasons alone I’d say yes. But for the rest of it, you’re on your own!

The Devil Wears Frittata

Some of you may remember a film that came out in the late 1980s called Broadcast News. Set in a television news room it starred Holly Hunter, William Hurt and Albert Brooks. And Jack Nicholson too, in a brief cameo. A quick glance online reveals that it’s well thought-of but it was one of those films that comes out, bags a bunch of good reviews, pleases its audience and, six months later, is all but forgotten. I haven’t seen it for a long time but if it was on tv tonight I’d watch it. It’s funny, intelligent, well-made and, overall, a good way to spend a couple of hours.

Last night I went to see Morning Glory. Written by Aline Brosh McKenne who wrote the screenplay The Devil Wears Prada and directed by Notting Hill’s Roger Michell (who also directed the excellent Buddha of Suburbia), it’s a film about a morning television show. Kind of like Ireland AM but rubbish. So, kind of like Ireland AM. Rachel McAdams stars as Becky, a recently laid-off tv producer looking for a break into the big time. She lands a gig producing a daily morning show hosted by Diane Keaton’s Colleen Peck  and a sleazy co-host that Becky fires about five minutes after she starts her job. As you do. Looking for a new anchor she turns to Harrison Ford’s Jack Pomeroy, a disgraced, award-winning investigative journalist who is available, under contract and, therefore, forced to work on a show that is way beyond his intelligence and capabilities. He’s old and grizzly and can’t bear to cover any of the topics that his co-host (also, pleasingly, old and grizzly) takes on with good humor and gusto.

Anyway, it wouldn’t do to reveal much more of the plot (plot – ha!) except to say that Patrick Wilson pops up in a barely written at all role as Becky’s love interest and Jeff Goldblum plays the Jeff Goldblum character. You know the one I’m talking about. After two hours of Becky trying to balance the demands of producing a tv show and maintaining a relationship (hint: she balances it with little trouble at all), it all ends happily for everyone. There: Spoiler alert.

There’s also a bungled, not-really-there-at-all subtext about the real news vs trivia news debate but the makers of Morning Glory don’t really care about that. They’re not making Network, they’re making The Devil Wears Prada in a tv station with Rachel McAdams doing the Anne Hathaway character and Diane Keaton doing her best interpretation of Meryl Streep’s frosty ice queen. Except Diane Keaton isn’t Meryl Streep, is she? That’s why we love her – because she’s Annie Hall and Kay Corleone and she’s all those characters that wear cream and beige in films like Father of the Bride and Something’s Gotta Give and The Family Stone and Looking for Mr. Goodbar. Ok – possibly not Goodbar but you get my point. And as for Harrison Ford, well it’s nice,  for a change, that he isn’t running around, fighting bad guys and looking for his wife and family (although he does have grandchildren that don’t seem to care for him very much). Ford’s irascible anchor man does a nice line in gruff, cranky put-downs which you can’t really blame him for when you consider who he’s working for. Still, you can’t help wondering what’s going on in his principled head when, having initially refused to play along with the show’s declining standards, he, bewilderingly, ends up cooking a frittata on live tv. Seriously, the climax of the film is Harrison Ford beating eggs. Not bad guys – eggs.

Look, it’s not that Morning Glory is a bad film. It’s not bad – it’s just really disappointing. One can’t help wondering how the producers gathered together so much talent and created something so dull and lacking in credibility – or likeability for that matter. Still, to their credit, they avoided using What’s the Story, Morning Glory on the sountrack. But that’s hardly a recommendation, is it?

Avoid.

Funny that.

I see that some Oscar voters are claiming they’re reluctant to vote for Colin Firth’s performance in The King’s Speech because of a smear campaign at the moment that claims that George VI was anti-Semitic. Not that Colin Firth is anti-Semitic (although nothing would surprise me about that sleazeball!) – but that a character he’s playing in the movie might have been anti-semitic seventy years ago. You can read the article here.

It’s funny – they haven’t had a problem in recent years giving the award to actors who have played suspected murderers, homophobes, serial killers, corrupt cops and, for God’s sake, Idi bloody Amin.

Just saying.

An actual listener

Loyal readers who were with me back on the old blog will know that I began to co-host a radio show, Retrospective Perspective (still think that’s a great name for a Greatest Hits album) on Dublin City FM in 2008. We had the show for about a year and finally stopped doing it in May 2009.

At about the same time I started to fill in once or twice a month on Sunday Breakfast, the station’s Sunday morning (8am-10am) slot. It’s a bit of a thankless task. After all, who’s listening to the radio at 8am on a Sunday morning. And if anybody’s listening to the radio, who’s going to listen to a local radio station that’s notoriously hard to find on the dial? Put it this way, when I’m not doing the show, I don’t listen to the show. 8am on a Sunday morning? Are you mad?!

Anyway, as you may have gathered, doing a show like that can be a lonely gig. You go in, fire up the desk and the decks and get on with it. I announce myself, give out numbers for texts, comments, requests etc. and settle in to a two hour stint in splendid isolation. Of course, one of the upsides is that if I make a mistake – and I make lots of mistakes – I can get away with it fairly handy. Of course, one never knows if there’s somebody listening or not, so if an expletive slips by my stringent checks (ha!) an apology will always be forthcoming. But of course nobody ever complains because, as you have surely noticed, NOBODY is listening.

I was on yesterday morning. Rocked in at five to eight and got stuck into it. Played a few songs, accidentally played the start of one of them again, didn’t notice a swear word in a song by John Grant and queued up a few commercials. Then, as I was reading the front page of the newspaper (free newspapers at the Station – bonus!) my phone buzzed. It was a text. From a listener. It was a girl/woman called Liza telling me that she liked some of the music (what? not all of the music? and nothing about my links?) and did I have The Beatles’ Honey Pie. Of course I don’t have The bloody Beatles’ Honey Pie. What did she think this was? A radio show?! Still, how exciting. A listener that wasn’t my mother.

I read once that the BBC reckon that for every text or call they get, they have 10,000 listeners. 10,000 listeners? Hey – a boy can dream!

Oh – just for the heck of it, here’s yesterday’s playlist:

1. Save My Love, Bruce Springsteen
2. Something Changed, Pulp
3. Darkness Descends, Laura Marling,
4. The Man with the Child in his Eyes, Kate Bush
5. TVC15, DAvid Bowie
6. Where Dreams Go To Die, John Grant
7. I Left my Heart in San Francisco, Tony Bennett
8. Mississippi, Bob Dylan
9. The Magic, Joan as Policewoman
10. Freeway, Aimee Mann
11. Where Were You Last Night, Gregory Darling
12. Drive in  Saturday, David Bowie
13. Ain’t Good Enough For You, Bruce Springsteen
14. Cry Baby, Cee Lo Green
15. Bloodbuzz, Ohio, The National
16. Talk to Me, Bruce Springsteen
17. Working Overtime, Tony Christie
18. Silver Platter Club, John Grant
19. M79, Vampire Weekend
20. Graceland, Paul Simon
21. My Darling, Wilco
22. St. Dominic’s Preview, Van Morrison
23. For Emma, Bon Iver
24. You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go, Madeline Peyroux
25. Go Your Own Way, Fleetwood Mac

I’ll be back on air later this month – I’ll keep you posted. In the meantime, tune in to Sunday Breakfast on Dublin City 103.2 Fm. You can even listen online http://www.dublincityfm.ie. Then you can let me know what’s going on!

Epic Fiall.

Yesterday was my nephew’s first birthday. I’ve got a bunch of nieces and nephews and Niall, my brother’s boy, is the newest of all of them and his parents decided to have a party for the little fella. Anyway, the ordered a birthday cake with a simple message and went down to collect it from the bakery in Skerries (which is in North County Dublin, in case you’re interested). The message they wanted to put on the cake was quite simple: “Happy Birthday Niall”. The message that was on the cake when they took it home was quite different. Similar but different. You can see it in this photo. 

I believe this is what the young people call an Epic Fail. Or, in this case, an epic Fiall. When Niall’s parents took the cake back to the shop to complain, the store manager’s only response was that “we get a lot of complaints about that sort of thing here”. They didn’t redo it either. That’s Irish customer service in a recession for you right there.

The name of the shop? Well if the person who did the cake was writing this, they’s probably say that it was Spuervlua. But you can probably work it out for yourself.

Monday. Bloody Sunday.

James Nesbitt as Ivan Cooper in Bloody Sunday

Just finished watching Bloody Sunday, Paul Greengrass’ cracking dramatisation of the tragic events that occurred in Derry in January 1972. It’s a funny thing; growing up in Dublin, we were always aware of The Troubles but looking back on it now, it amazes me that we were generally unaffected by things that were happening less than two and a half hours away from us. Ignoring the fact that areas south of the border were never targeted (save for the Dublin and Monaghan bombings in 1974), there was also a general ignorance about what was going on. I guess we just got used to hearing about it regularly on the news that we never actually thought about the realities. I suppose, to our shame, we still do that now when we hear about things happening in Afghanistan or Haiti. It’s possibly even more shameful that we can even be that blasé about things happening up the road. Although, perhaps Nothern Ireland didn’t feel like ‘just up the road’ thirty years ago.

Anyway, Bloody Sunday is a film that I’d never seen before but, because I’m about to start studying that period of history in some detail, I thought I’d have a look to see how Greengrass presented the events. It’s a terrific piece of filmmaking. Taut and tense, it builds gradually from dawn on the morning of the Civil Rights march in a series of brief vignettes that introduces different characters from the British army, the locals in the community and, centrally, Ivan Cooper, the the Protestant MP who organised the march. James Nesbitt delivers a stunning performance as Cooper – a character who goes from cautious optimism to anxiety, despair and fury as the day progresses. With a face like thunder, Nesbitt’s speech to reporters at the end of the tragic day is extraordinary. In a film that he has to carry on his own (although I suppose the story is so shocking that it would still be very watchable with a lesser actor in the central role) Nesbitt truly excels, delivering a performance that anyone that’s only used to Cold Feet and BT ads will find astonishing. I’ve always known there was a lot more to him than the cheeky chappy Norther Irish caricature but, even allowing for that, I was genuinely amazed by what he does in this movie.

I suppose, considering that the film was made while the Saville Enquiry was still ongoing, it could only go so far in apportioning blame to the British Army. That’s to say that while it doesn’t shy away from highlighting their heavy handed and brutal behaviour, it also shows a civilian shooting into the air at one point – something which doesn’t seem to have happened at all on the day but could, to some extent, be used as a justification. Anyway – it’s a minor comment and shouldn’t be taken as a criticism or anything like it.

As for the film itself, well it certainly seems to capture the look and feel of what I imagine Derry was like at the time. In fact, most of it was shot in Ballymun, which is less than five miles from where i’m sitting as I write this. It’s shot in a documentary style with many short scenes showing the viewer what was going on in the city and at the army headquarters as things escalated beyond control.

And yes, U2’s Sunday Bloody Sunday is used on the soundtrack. It plays over the closing credits and unless i’m mistaken it’s the only music used in the film at all.

I can’t believe it’s taken me eight years to see this film and I’m reluctant to insist that others should stop everything to watch it considering I probably wouldn’t have bothered with it unless I had to. Still, it’s an unbelievable story and, even if you just want to watch it for James Nesbitt’s performance, it’s absolutely worth two hours of your time.

 

Stranded. In Phibsborough.

Post Christmas, there’s a bunch of those ever-popular ‘list’ books scattered around the house. I’ve spend a cosy afternoon flicking through some of them by the fire. There’s 1001 Movies You Must See Before You Die (random selection: page 542, Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song (1971) a film I’ve never seen but now I feel like I have to.) Then there’s 365 Good Reasons to Sit Down and Eat (random selection: Sept 6th, Leek Flamiche. Flamiche? Qu’est que c’est?!).Then there’s another 1001 book, this time it’s 1001 albums you must hear etc. (random selection: page 232, John Lennon’s Imagine, which I’ve already heard so that’s one I can tick off the list! And here in lies the problem with these books. As much as they’re entertaining and diverting and all that, surely nobody could actually listen to all these records or watch these movies. In the preface to the film book, Jason Solomons concedes that, although there is a handy checklist at the back which allows you to mark off the films as you see them, it’s entirely possible that nobody could ever manage to see all of 1001 films. And he’s a film critic who watched over five hundred movies a year. The rest of us, as I’ve discussed further down this page, would struggle to see fifty.

No, as much as I love these books, I need something a little more manageable to get me through the year. Which leads me to Stranded, a book I picked up for 2 quid in town over Christmas. I’d never heard of it before – which surprised me because it’s edited by Greil Marcus and I’d read a bunch of his books.Anyway, the book was originally published back in 1978 and gathers together a series of essays by rock writers about the single record they would take to a desert island. It’s not, by any stretch of the imagination, an original idea but it’s one that magazines and books have been getting great mileage out of for years.

So this book, Stranded, has twenty essays by a bunch of different writers. Some of them – Dave Marsh, Jay Cocks and Lester Bangs I’ve been aware of for a long time but there are many others like Janet Maslin, Tom Smucker and Grace Lichtenstein that I know nothing about. It’s not just the writers I’ve never heard of – there’s lots of records in the book that have completely passed me by too. The 5 Royals’ Dedicated to You? Onan’s Greatest Hits? Thomas A Dorsey’s Precious Lord? These are all mysteries to me.

But no more! If I can’t get through 1001 albums or movies in my lifetime, I should be about to get through twenty records in a year. So, I’m going to start a small project for 2011. Every two weeks or so, I’ll download or buy a physical copy of a record from the list and, having absorbed it for a fortnight, I’ll write about it here. Think of it as a book/essay club for one! I suppose you could also think of it as a musical version of Julia and Julia – without the silly accents and the cream and butter. If nothing else, I should be exposed to some interesting old records and some good writing. And if you’re reading, this you’ll be exposed to badly summarised essays about both! I’ll go through the book chronologically. If the order they’re presented in Stranded is good enough for Greil Marcus, then it’s good enough for me.

The first one is easy enough. It’s Van Morrison’s It’s Too Late to Stop Now. I’ve had that record for a few years – actually I think I even have it on vinyl somewhere – but I don’t think I’ve listened to it for several years. In fact I went looking for it in iTunes earlier and it wasn’t there so I guess I really haven’t looked for it for ages. Still, it’s going to be fairly familiar to me when I find it.

I’m sure this kind of thing has been done before but I’m looking forward to exposing myself to some great music and writing. I know that, since the book was published in 1978, I’m restricting myself to a fairly limited range of music. There’ll be no rap, grunge, new wave, hip-hop, Britpop etc etc in this book but that’s ok. Maybe that’ll become next year’s project. In the meantime I’m already looking forward to finding out why someone would want to take an Eagles record to a desert island!

By the way, this book cost me two euro in town. It struck me that there must be a downside to being able to buy books so cheaply. Then I read this entry on the Word blog about the same thing. It’s worth a look if you’ve ever wondered what might happen if we continue to expect to pay little or nothing for our entertainment.

Put it away lads

Some months ago, I began swimming in the pool at DCU’s Sports Complex. The facilities up there are fantastic and the pool is usually relatively quiet. However the changing rooms tend to be  fairly busy, taking in visitors from the pool, the fitness centre and the sports grounds. You’ll always get a free locker when you need one but it can get pretty crowded in there.

This being the case, the Christmas holidays have been great. The students were gone for Christmas and the public largely stayed away. I was up there during the holidays and three times this week and, prior to tonight, I’ve pretty much had the run of the place. Tonight was different. The college boys are back and Johnny Public is back on the salads and workouts. Now, there’s nothing wrong with lots of people wanting to exercise but what’s the story with men and their fondness for strolling around changing rooms with everything on show? I’m no prude but I find it mildly staggering that most of the guys are happy to stroll around the place, chatting to their friends and displaying their manhood in a way that suggest that they’re rather pleased with themselves. And ladies, before you get excited, let me assure you that you’re not missing out on very much. It seems to me that the further out of shape the exhibitor is, the more inclined he is to, if you’ll forgive an unpleasant expression, air his undercarriage.

It reminds me of David Niven’s wonderful comment at the 1974 Oscars when his introduction was interrupted by a streaker who ran across the stage. Unscripted, Niven quipped: “Isn’t it fascinating to think that probably the only laugh that man will ever get in his life is by stripping off and showing his shortcomings?” I know how he felt.

What does all this mean? Well not much apart from proving a truism that a colleague made about men’s changing rooms recently: it doesn’t matter where you go, there’s always some bollox in your face.

Give the people what they want

So Liverpool lost again this evening and, once more, the knives are out for Roy Hodgson on the red half of Merseyside. Some say he’ll be gone by the morning and the search for a new manager will begin – if it hasn’t already. Liverpool supporters have been calling for the appointment of their legendary former player – and manager – Kenny Dalglish and there seems a very good chance that they’re going to get their wish. I hope they do. It’s the very least they deserve.

I’ve got no great truck with Liverpool. I probably like them more than Chelsea but less than Tottenham. But I like Bolton or West Brom more than any of them. Ultimately I’ve no loyalty towards any club. Some people would probably claim that that leaves me in no position to comment about football but, frankly, that’s nonsense. Just because I don’t sign up for the headless support, through thick and thin, of a specific team doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy, appreciate and, yes, comment on the sport. I don’t need to be obsessed with one golfer to have an opinion about golf and I don’t need to love all of Steven King’s books or Bob Dylan’s records to enjoy one now and then. So it is with football. I know the stats and I know the players. I know the results and the reports and who’s going where in the transfer window. Just don’t ask me who I support. None of them need my support and even if they did they’re not getting it.

Now, back to Liverpool. Hodgson, an extremely likeable, articulate, intelligent and, by all accounts, decent man was appointed to the managerial post six months ago. At the time he was considered to be a safe pair of hands to guide the club through what every commentator – and some supporters – agreed was going to be a tough few seasons. Halfway through his first tough season, the club are struggling and, despite an occasional decent result, the supporters – the self-proclaimed ‘greatest supporters in the world’  – have decided they’ve had enough and want to see Hodgson replaced with a man who, in his defence, has overseen great times in the Liverpool manager’s hotseat. The only problem is that it was twenty years ago. Since then he has enjoyed some success at Blackburn Rovers and less at Newcastle and Celtic. He hasn’t even managed a team for eleven years. Does that sound like the man to take a troubled club dreaming of past successes forward? I thought as much yet, if you ask Liverpool supporters who they want to replace Hodgson, King Kenny is the name you’ll hear coming back at you. It’s utterly ludicrous. In what other business – and let’s not pretend football is anything but a business – would a former chief executive get to come back after an absence and manage to achieve success. Apart from Steve Jobs at Apple, obviously. Let’s call him the exception that proves the rule! The point is that football is littered with returnees who have failed miserably. You can’t go back is what they say and, as is so often the case, they are quite right.

And what of Hodgson, where did he go wrong? Well, apparently he’s done what most struggling football managers do. He’s ‘lost’ the dressing room. He’s what? He’s failed to get the best out of a bunch of young men who are paid a king’s ransom to play football. Who are pampered and rewarded and asked, in return, to have a go against teams like Wolverhampton Wanderers and Blackpool. And when they can’t be bothered to perform, the blame lands at the manager’s door. Steven Gerrard, Liverpool’s captain missed a penalty in their defeat tonight. If he’d scored, there’s a chance the game could have ended in a draw. But he missed his penalty and the game was lost. That’s probably Hodgson’s fault too.

Liverpool fans have refused to give Roy Hodgson much of  a chance and instead want to go back twenty years to a different time – albeit the same place. I say let them have their wish. Then the fun will really start.

You’ll never walk alone? Try telling that to Roy Hodgson tonight.