Stunning. The best word to describe Matt Jansen’s autobiography

There are football biographies, then there are books about football fan culture, or the business end of the game, then there are books about the banter that surrounds professional football. I’m probably a little bit interested in the first lot, but only if they’ve been a significant Blackburn Rovers player or manager, curiously drawn to elements of the second and third category, and probably not that interested in the latter batch at all. I’ve never read the story of the career of, for example (and to pluck a random name completely out of the air), Dean Saunders. I do like fast paced business biographies, tales of bravery and courage, and the extraordinary achievements of relatable people.

Matt Jansen’s timely biography is rather brilliant, in that I found myself unable to explain quite what it meant to me, welling up with tears, relaying the tale of the post-accident Jansen appearing at Ewood for Bolton Wanderers and getting a standing ovation from all four sides of the ground. I was about as articulate this week, to my non-Rovers supporting 15 year son, as I was to Matt Jansen himself when I asked him if he was going to be alight in Velvet Restaurant in Manchester in July 2002. What I wanted to say was - “I have watched Blackburn Rovers teams for the last 25 years, reared on Wagstaffe and Garner, spoilt by Shearer and Hendry, but you, Matt, are something special. THAT goal at Preston, all those performances in that season culminating in THAT goal at Preston, THAT game against Arsenal. Oh, and Cardiff. That’s why I have a son called Matt, born six weeks after THAT day in Cardiff. Your day. I hope beyond all else, that you are going to be OK. I love you Matt Jansen.”

Instead I said something like - “going to be alright then, you? Please. Sorry?”

Or as my Canadian deputy commented once we were back in the office. “Just seen the boss go all weird and woozy in front of some soccer kid called Matty Hansen”.

But much as I enjoyed the rekindling of footballing memories - and I really, really did - and much as the latter narrative was challenging - it really, really was - this was a book about belief. The deep, psychological core belief in who you are as a person. How that motivates your actions and guides behaviour. Told against the backdrop of what might have been for a professional athlete who had his world shaken to its roots, it is at times heartbreaking and unbearable. The passages with the psychiatrist Steve Peters, with my mate Michael Finnigan, the performance psychologist, and his experiences around various doctors was truly fascinating. Jaw dropping, in fact. Professional football has been on a journey, as wealth has grown, so assets need nurturing, protecting. You also get the impression from the story just how many people in football management are winging it. No qualifications, no attention to detail, no success. I mean, work it out.

I won’t say the book is ultimately uplifting, because it isn’t. But to bear witness to one man overcoming loss - and it is loss - is at least inspiring. It becomes a book about choice too. The most powerful passages pivot around Steve Peters and how he approaches Matt. It’s what ultimately makes it such a compelling book.

A word then on professionalism. This is a well produced book by the impressive imprint Polaris. It is also very well written and very smartly constructed by the Carlisle News and Star journalist Jon Colman. I like the way it is Matt’s story, but not without critical voices - his wife, his father-in-law, friends like Garry Flitcroft one of many people who emerge from the book with abundant generosity of spirit and time.

This is also a welcome addition to a conversation I’m delighted is happening more and more, that mental health matters, that the mind matters.

So I’ll say now all that I really wanted to say to Matt in 2002. Thank you. And that I wish you every happiness.

Where were you when we were getting high?

So it came down to a champagne super over. I thought of it - maybe because, you know, once an editor, always an editor. But it was as dramatic an ending as it was able to be. Snatching a hope of victory from the jaws of slow inevitable defeat.

But you can read about the twists and turns and the heroes of the Cricket World Cup elsewhere and in abundance. I can only add something of the emotion of it. In our living room, where we've seen England football teams lose semi-finals, quarter finals and send us to bed in sadness. We watched the 2012 Olympics in our holiday cottage in the Lakes, and how surreal and triumphant all of that now feels.

Louis said in the final over, please, just once, let me see in my lifetime an English team win a major tournament.

Had I been glued to the TV all day, gripped by it? No, we've been gardening and dipping in and out. I can't claim to be that big a cricket fan, but Louis was providing yelps and groans to keep us posted.

I just sort of expected disappointment. It's become part of our psyche. To be voyeurs at someone else's sporting moment of absolute triumph.

In the end though it was essential viewing. I was drawn to the collective moment and fully expected disaster. The heroic, so-close but yet so far, drama. We had to watch it together, bonded in that finale. 

Thank you.

What’s the story - televised glory? Magic Dack and a ready made Villain

If you want to know the way that television influences games, then it was there tonight at Ewood Park in flashing LED lighting, flashing as obviously and ostentatiously as adverts for bookies, vapers and the Venky’s.

It was always going to be about Dack versus Grealish whether the game turned out that way or not.

For the most part it didn’t. The referee protected the pound shop Ronaldo like a precious newly born pup. Giving him soft free-kicks and refusing to book him for the kind of gamesmanship that clipped Corry Evans’ wings with a yellow card minutes earlier. By the time he fell like a rag doll from a nothing challenge from Harrison Reed, earning the free kick, he shouldn’t have been on the pitch if the referee had applied the same standards of footballing justice he had dispensed to others.

You can’t tell me that the referee wasn’t showboating for the cameras. In his mind was how this would play to Sky’s pre-scripted narrative. Grealish is one of those players for whom an occasion like this has to pivot on his contribution to it. Except it wasn’t at all, not even close. And then there was that cheap free-kick he won. Though to be fair, the lad that curled it into the bottom left deserves some credit for a strike of such quality.

On a long list of things that frequently irritate me about a day out at Ewood is the choice of Peter Jackson the Jeweller Man of the Match, which is usually wrong. It wasn’t the player I’d have chosen, but then I don’t get invited as a guest of said jeweller. It wasn’t Charlie Mulgrew, Ryan Nyambe, Elliot Bennett or Danny Graham. Or one of the two players who were substituted who did such a good job of souring Sky’s script and snuffling out Grealish. No, of course it wasn’t. It was Bradley Dack. It was always going to be Bradley Dack, because he scored what they call in the trade “a Sky goal” and because he’s Bradley Dack. Don’t get me wrong, I love the Medway Messi. I thought his goal was a work of unbridled genius that deserved to win us the game. But what do I know?

So we get home, way past 9pm, after dropping the eldest at his university digs, the bitter disappointment dissipated somewhat by our usual way of dealing with it, swearing a lot and playing music. Yet Sky are telling everyone who wasn’t there that the story of the night was the one they always wanted it to be.

I’d have been happy with a draw today as Aston Villa are a team with decent players in it. Whether they are a decent team is Steve Bruce’s problem, not ours. Our frustrations are another late equaliser, and some odd substitutions. Notably the bizarre introduction of Ben Brereton, a non-tackling striker in a wingers position. But I was confused by the lack of courage from Bell and Armstrong in attacking either empty spaces or an ageing full back. They might not face as experienced an opponent as Alan Hutton this season, but they will face faster ones and when they do they will look on tonight as an opportunity missed.

To end on a positive. Charlie Mulgrew was commanding and composed tonight. Ryan Nyambe gets better every game. Lenihan lives dangerously, but what a warrior. And yes, Dack is immense, but the story the Rovers fans have been stewing on all week has been the poor form of Richie Smallwood. He answered that in the best way possible tonight with a performance of bravery and some astute passing. Harrison Reed was impressive, and is a good problem for the manager to have, but the King (of Ewood) isn’t dead yet.

The best business speaker I've ever seen is...

Kevin Roberts on stage (pic by Neil Price)

I get asked a lot who the best speaker I’ve ever worked with is. There are so many ways to answer that. Who works best in a small room doesn’t always light up an auditorium. A funny, wise and informative conference presenter can fall spectacularly as an after dinner performer – and I’ve seen Wayne Hemingway do both.

So obviously, it depends. But for emotion, danger, connection, wisdom, inspiration and, yes, entertainment the answer is Kevin Roberts, author of Lovemarks, chairman of Saatchi & Saatchi, head coach at Publicis and, like me, he left Lancaster Royal Grammar School in a state of disgrace.

I saw him again this week for the first time in ‘too long’. He was doing the keynote address at the Annual Hotel Conference in Manchester, curated by my old chum Chris Eddlestone, the self-styled Earl of East Lancashire. What struck me more than anything was his edge, an urgency to understand, keep up, interpret and act. But also to seek and maintain a higher purpose to whatever it is you do. He started by talking about millenials, the globally mobile digital natives – in particular how the hotels industry needs to think very carefully about what they want and need in the age of Airbnb. But, the algorithm can read the lines but only we can read between them and deliver emotional connections.

His talks are always full of visuals, names, quotes and bursts of inspiration. This is the Age of the Idea, he said, and the biggest one of them all right now is disruption. Kevin took a lifelong love of rugby from his time at our school (I didn’t). And I remember an evening at the Town Hall in 2004 where he invited his mate Sean Fitzpatrick to teach the first XV the Haka as part of a bawdy night of fundraising for a planned tour of Argentina. Raising money for privileged children, I think I called it at the time.

The mysticism of the All Blacks – the Haka is a part of that – does rather irritate me, just as Barcelona’s ‘more than a club’ creates the aura of semi-religious purity it so frequently fails to live up to. But if you’re going to do something well, then why not do it in such fine and grand style. I liked

Kevin’s comment about the England Rugby team’s purpose and ideal was to win the World Cup on home soil.

The All Blacks is to be the best rugby team that ever played the game. Wow. That’s really powerful. So he’s dead right when he says that no opposition is ever more intimidating than the legacy.

There’s also a dressing room “all for one” culture of humility that doesn’t tolerate dickheads. Kevin said that a Kevin Pietersen would never have been an All Black. So why the war dance then chaps? A dose of Kevin is always a good part of any day, week, year. Truly, the best there is.

It got me thinking about the old school. I wasn’t happy at school and have been an avowed opponent of the selective system all my life, up to, during and after, my own experience of its harmful effects not just on me, but on my friends and family who “failed” their 11 plus, scarring them for life. The bright lads from tough backgrounds who got through, but who seemed to drop out and drift away from the culture of cold showers, Latin, housemasters, Big School, prefects and rugby. 

As I said on BBC Radio Manchester this morning, I’m disappointed that selective state grammar schools are making a comeback. I am all in favour of improving schools and improving the life chances of our brightest and best. But the flip side of this elitism in state education is too cruel and a massive distraction from the important project of raising standards across the board.

The problem with so much of our debate on all aspects of education is that it's fuelled by anecdote, gut feel and, frankly, picking the evidence to suit your prejudice. I have not seen any evidence whatsoever that grammar schools contribute to social mobility, higher earnings or leave anything positive in a community for the 90 per cent who don't pass the entrance exam.

So, for what it's worth, the fact that Kevin Roberts and I went to the same school and have taken the paths we have taken in life has absolutely nothing at all to say to the debate about the future of education in this country. But he is a bloody good speaker and whatever they teach you at Lancaster, it isn't that.

Our Olympic legacy

I can't add very much to the wall of plaudits for the London 2012 Olympics. We all really enjoyed the spectacle, the only regret being that our application to buy tickets yielded only football at Old Trafford - like we can never do that. How brilliant must it have been to have seen the athletics on either Super Saturday, but even just to have soaked up the atmosphere at the Handball or the Badminton.

There has been a lot of talk about inspiring a generation - I so hope that happens, even if all the evidence is that it makes no difference. In JJB the other day the sales assistant confirmed that people are buying more sports equipment, there is definite interest in running, tennis and cycling.

I worry that the education agenda is being kicked around by politicians eager to meddle and jump on a passing bandwagon - the aim shouldn't just be to produce 80 odd Olympians from the millions of children who take part in school sports, rather to make every kid feel that exercise and ambition are for them. That's inspiring a generation.

So in our house we've all got bikes. Partly it was the inspiration of Bradley Wiggins and co, but also that we are blessed to live in such a great place for cycling - the former rail line, the Middlewood Way, and all the canal tow paths are perfect.

My bike is a folding Dahon (right), single speed, pedal brakes and not much else. I bought it from Will's Wheels, which has a bike shop in Marple. I mention the local angle because it makes me feel slightly better about the fact the bike was made in Taiwan. I was tempted to get a British made Brompton after meeting Will Butler Adams last month, the MD of the iconic British bike company, but £800 is a stretch. Maybe next time.

The Dahon is excellent for taking on public transport and whizzing around Manchester. I was able to take it on the train to cycle friendly Milton Keynes recently, and it was ideal - but everywhere I go I'm stopped to talk about the bike, it's a real show stopper.

So there we are, a bit more opportunity for exercise and a quicker way to get around. However good the kids are at any of this only time will tell, but it's so important to hold those great feelings of exhilaration and embrace this sporting life in all its forms.

Joe Birrell - Olympic Hero

Our kids had to do a presentation on an Olympic hero. Louis and Elliot chose a guy who competed in the 1948 "austerity" Olympics in London called Joe Birrell. He was my maths teacher at school and got me through my O Level resit. He never boasted about his sporting achievements, in fact he was a bit of an enigma to be honest. Here's a story about 'Joe Biz' from the Lancaster Guardian.

On not drinking again

Since a rather lush and lager-fuelled afternoon at the England v Australia one day cricket match, I have stayed off the booze. I felt very depressed for a few days after, which only really climbed up to a state of melancholy when my iPhone was replaced. Losing a phone, like losing a pair of glasses (which I also did) is not something a man of my age and responsibility should do. My mental anguish was wholly unaffected by the football result I also witnessed on the day - Germany 4, England 1. But my recollection of watching the game is a misty blur of double vision and mock outrage.

As time has gone on I have met people who saw me that day. Good people who are sensible and moral upstanding pillars of society, local and regional. None have said I disgraced myself. All have confessed they did. It seems it is what cricket is made for - a good old fashioned all day bender. But despite that lifting of a cloak of shame and self pity, I was more desperate that the children not see me in such a sorry state. And, with a frantically busy schedule of work ahead, a sensible midweek period of absence was in order anyway.

This has now continued through a monthful of weekends which have included my sister's 40th, a night at our friends - a return match to a fixture which became very rowdy last year - and summery evenings with not much to get up for the next day. I have to say I have enjoyed myself on all occasions.

But, I have also felt better and sharper as a result. The healthier diet and the fitness training recommended by Steve Hoyles helps, I would suggest. But still my abiding feeling of being off the grog is not to come over as too pious about it.

One of my vices is a love of slightly exotic red wines. Two delicious and tempting bottles of Barolo wink at me from the wine rack. They can wait until our summer holiday - and the wait will be worth it. So too will a bottle of Chateau Musar 1999. But these are treats, something to look forward to and savour and not part of a lingering habit.

Fighting to be fit

For my birthday Rachel bought me an excellent present. A personal trainer called Steve Hoyles, booked though Theo Wood.

I have suffered great pain since he started his Tuesday evening appointments and began the long process of licking me into some kind of shape. We have done weight training and he has compiled me a diet sheet. I will update on progress in time.

In summary, after the first session my legs turned to stone the next day. The day after that they hardened to granite. Walking was difficult.

Though the session itself was harder on the second visit, the leg pain was bearable but my chest has been stiff. This is all good, I'm sure. I am feeling much more alert and some of the excess timber is dropping off. I'm sure that not drinking is a big help too.

It's bobsleigh, not ballet

One of Rachel's pals from work Dan Money is competing in the British bobsleigh team in the Winter Olympics. He had a tumble yesterday. But I love his quote, here:

"This can happen," he said. "It's bobsleigh, it's not ballet dancing. Crashes happen."

Wasps or wimps?

In football it is the referee who deems whether a pitch is fit to play on. In rugby, it appears that if one team doesn't fancy it then they can unilaterally refuse to play. That's what seems to have happened at Edgeley Park tonight, the home of Sale Sharks. After wolfing down our meal in the Insider Suite we trooped out with our guests to be told over the tannoy that Wasps didn't want to play. Unbelievable. James Jennings, the Sale Sharks chief executive was very annoyed and announced that the ref had deemed the pitch was playable. But Wasps had flown off.

In the lounge later vice captain Mark Cueto was visibly annoyed and said: "It's typical of Wasps, they didn't fancy it at Edgeley tonight."

They should have points deducted for this fiasco.

Climbing mountains

Check out this. A candid and mildly bizarre statement about the future of Sale Sharks from owner Brian Kennedy.

His definition of success:

When we are playing in front of 15,000 fans every home game with the camaraderie of occasion that belongs to the world’s greatest team game; when we are competing and winning against the top teams in Europe; when Sale Sharks can truly say we are a top flight club in every way.

This ambition can only be achieved with the support and help of the people of the North West. I urge you to join me and our loyal fans, sponsors and employees in this challenging and stimulating journey, the destination of which is worthy of the most creative and enterprising region in England... THE NORTH WEST.

I say it's bizarre because elsewhere in the piece he's remarkably candid and self-effacing. He makes a blatant plea to councils in the whole of the region to get in touch and help him build a new stadium, but isn't that bothered about where it may be. The whole thing also strikes me as odd because I simply couldn't imagine this kind of ambition and focus coming from any Premier League football club owner outside the Big Four. Go on, read it and see what I mean.

Sporting tensions

Following last week's deathly boring bore draw at Ewood Park I did the worst possible thing last night. I went to see a bit of egg chasing, seeing Sale Sharks beat Leicester Tigers in a cracking game at Edgeley Park. It was everything that the football wasn't. Passionate, tight, action-packed and full of nail biting tension at the end.

Pull!

Try anything once, within reason. Here's me having a go at clay pigeon shooting in Cornwall. What a lot of fun this is. I think next time I'll try doing it blindfold and see if there's any improvement.

A whole new ball game

Having become moderately interested in Rugby Union after our business went into partnership with Sale Sharks, my interest has been sufficiently piqued to accept a corporate invite to go and see a different type of egg chasing today: Warrington Wolves v Salford City Reds at Rugby League.

I don't have any particularly stong prejudices about Rugby League. There is an old adage from Laurie Daly (link here) that says Rugby League is a simple game played by simple people, with something rude about who plays the 15-man version.

Then there's this, here. Which explains a few differences and is pro RL.

This argues that the subtleties of union make it more intruiging, more like chess.

I also noted some comments from a Rugby League fan - Damian Connelly - to explain his personal frustration with the 15 man code:

Andy Farrell briefly considered a return to Rugby League after a disastrous World Cup - decided against it though as it would mean a return to having to be active for 100% of the game, instead of just 20% and anyway "you don't get chance for a cup of tea on the pitch when you play league".

Ruck/Maul specialists spend winter officiating at Harrogate Turkish baths so they can continue rolling around on the floor bum@ing and groping....

Line out teams may as well join the Billy Smart circus trapeze act - again another opportunity for a bit of "manual handling".

I understand that the IRB are considering a few rule changes to make the game more exciting - dropping down to 13 a side, with unopposed scrums and limited tackles. Or alternatively to exploit the propensity to pap pants and kick the ball instead of taking a tackle like men, drop down to 11 a side, make the ball round, take down the posts and replace with a netted enclosure.

OK, so I'm getting into something way over my head here. What I can say is I've been to loads of Sale Sharks games and still don't understand the game. I enjoy it, but don't understand it. I can work out the pattern of a football match within 30 seconds. Rugby? no chance.

So yes, of course I've seen Rugby League on TV, I can see that it's a faster and more flowing game. But it's also very straightforward to understand.

The atmosphere at the game was also slightly more like a football match today; there were away supporters, abusive songs, fans goading each other and police. But I was told that was because Salford are a bit more "soccer" than most well behaved RL followings.

If there's a frustration I've had of watching Rugby Union it's the ability of a poorer team to play tight rugby and stop a game by sheer physical determination: Bath, Worcester and Newcastle all did that to Sale. I can't see 13 players doing that to the same extent with the open style of RL. On the evidence of today's game, Rugby League seems to be all about courage and speed. Warrington dominated, yet trailed at half time 12-20. Whatever the coach Tony Smith said at half time, changed the game totally. They were braver, took more risks, chalked up points and Salford lost all heart. The result was a capitulation to 62-20.

But read a better report of the game than anything from me, here, here or here.

We'll have a bit more of this, I reckon.

Take That and Freddie

I got a call from a well connected pal this afternoon. He'd had a cry off for Take That tomorrow night. Would me and Rachel like to come along? Other guests included Andrew Flintoff and some other talent from the same sporting stable.

We don't have a babysitter. Doh.

John Gwynne keeps up

I'm the getting the hang of watching rugby. At Sale Sharks v Bristol the other night I pretty much followed everything. It helped that we were sitting near to legendary commentator John Gwynne (pictured) who has the most incredible voice. He didn't know who scored the second and fourth tries either. But we all knew who got the third one - Nick McLeod (sponsored by Insider).

If you're wondering John who? Then there's more about him, here and here.

Eaten alive by Sharks

Before Christmas I hosted a lunch for Sale Sharks Rugby Club as a favour. Link to the official report is here. I was terrified that I would commit some kind of gaffe exposing that I knew sod all about rugby, which is true, I really don't. I memorised all the names, positions and nationalities of the players I had to interview on stage. But checked myself; don't get chummy - you don't know them. I worked the room frantically gathering questions from each table - some from other players were cheeky, but I'd allow them to ask the question. Some were a bit technical, so I thought I'd bring the mic to the person asking the question.

And so before I introduced the six giants of rugby for an interactive Q&A session I fessed up. I'm a convert to all of this, I like watching, but like most of the corporate guests I know zip all about your sport, but love the honesty of rugby. Appreciative nods all around.

Then I introduced the players: "Juan Lobbe, Charlie Hodgson, David Tait, Matthew Tait and Mark Cato." Aaaaaggh. I said it. I said "Cato". Credibility gone. Mark Cueto. Pronounced Cwayto. I knew that.

I can only describe it as my John Stapleton moment.

To be fair, they were great sport and answered the questions with good grace. Especially my new best mate Mark Cueto, who has been playing brilliantly since.

Sports Personality of the Year Awards - what I should have said, could have said

Had a great night last night at the BBC Sports Personality of the Year Awards at the Echo Arena. I went as a corporate guest and managed to avoid speaking to John Prescott who was also in our party.

You've seen the awards on TV so you don't need me to run through all of that. It also really worked as a live spectacle for the 9000 punters. What was so impressive was the detail. Every seat was filled even if the ticket holder - named - didn't show, as was the case with Garry Cook, the chairman of Man City. I was sat just behind Prescott and Brave Kirsty Howard, and across from Brian Barwick of the FA and Andy Murray's mother. The Man United 1968 team were just to my right.

That moment when Jack Charlton came out was priceless. The ovation from the audience for Sir Bobby was lovely. And it was nice he thanked Liverpool. A class act.

I thought my pass might get me into some aftershow party for fellow corporate liggers, but was happy to find we were mingling with all kinds of sports stars I was far too shy to go up and speak to.

I've since thought of a ten questions I could have asked if I'd been the kind of nerdy pest that most other corporate liggers were turning into by the time I left at 10.30pm.

Ian Rush: Are you going to get as pissed as you did at the North West Football Awards?

Brian Kidd: You must be pleased Paul Ince is now going to replace you as the worst manager in Rovers' history?

Mike Newell: How come you got to sit next to Paula Radcliffe, in front of Lewis Hamilton and behind the director general of the BBC? Did Alan Shearer get you a ticket?

Lewis Hamilton: Do you realise you might have won if you paid your UK tax?

All the cyclists: Do you realise you've saved cycling from the clutches of the druggies?

Martin Bayfield: My mate John Fowler got mistaken for you once, by Ryan Giggs and his mates, how does that make you feel?

Bill Beaumont: Ince, rubbish isn't he?

Ricky Hatton: Do you want a lift home?

Chris Eubank's kids: Why don't you dress smartly, like your Dad? On second thoughts, don't answer that.

Denise Lewis: Do you remember we met at a drinks party at my pal Ross Biddescombe's flat
about 10 years ago?

Rugby confusion

I really enjoy going to the rugby. Really. But I can watch a game of rugby and be enthralled by the sheer physical brute power and athleticism on show, but still fail to understand any subtlety of the game whatsoever, or understand any of the rules at all. And so it was last night when Sale Sharks beat Leicester Tigers.

Another thing that baffles me. The Miami Dolphins are called that, because they are based near the ocean. The Dallas Cowboys reflect the Texan preoccupation with cattle. I have never seen a Shark in Sale, or a Tiger in Leicester. Quite what they should have been called isn't my problem, but it just adds to the whole sense of confusion I have over rugby.

Just not Cricket

We had a top night at Marple Cricket Club's annual dinner on Friday.

I always think cricket lads are a good laugh. By and large the banter is sharper than football and not as lewd as rugby - I've never fancied drinking piss out of a sock.

Bizarrely, most of the auction prizes were football and boxing bits and pieces. The speaker was Jeff Winter, the ex-ref, who was a late stand-in for Jonathan Agnew. He signed copies of his book and told stories about his refereeing days. He was very good, but to be honest I can't remember much as we rather hosed it down.