Compass? Check. Map of Europe? Check. One-month inter-rail pass? Check. And so the time has come for Kenny Dalglish, the king become kingmaker, and Christian Purslow, Liverpool’s managing director, to set off across the continent in search of the man who can fill Rafael Benitez’s suede brogues.
He must be experienced, established, stable, capable of dragging Liverpool back to a semblance of normality after the fevered madness of the last six months. He must have a good reputation in Europe, a tactical brain which is capable of outfoxing his peers in Madrid (not Real, just Atletico, at this stage) as easily as those in Manchester (City, probably, rather than United, in Liverpool’s world of realigned priorities).
Oh, and he must be willing to work on the pittance handed down to him by his absentee American overlords, he must not complain when they remove money which was promised to him for the transfer market, he must enjoy seeing the goalposts shift almost at random depending on whichever rules Tom Hicks and George Gillett are playing by this week and he must radiate the warmth of a thousand suns so as to illuminate the cosseted lives of multi-millionaire footballers. He must also win the approval of Jamie Redknapp, arbiter of excellence.
It is no easy task. Perhaps, in their quest, Dalglish and Purslow may like to take in two scenes visited by the last pair to undertake quite such an unrealistic search for El Dorado, the optimist Candide and his philosopher-guide Pangloss. You know, the man whose doctrine stated that all must be for the best since this is the best of all possible worlds.
They could go to Lisbon, for the promising Jorge Jesus, or Constantinople (now Istanbul) for Frank Rijkaard, the former Barcelona manager currently with Galatasaray. Maybe Manuel Pellegrini or Guus Hiddink?
The problem with all four, though, is that the only attractive thing about Liverpool at the moment is the club’s name, and that may not be enough to tempt a Portuguese, a Dutchman or a Chilean, so deep-seated are the scars continually being scoured into the Liverpool’s reputation by Hicks and Gillett.
Instead, Purslow and Dalglish may find the inter-railing ticket ditched in favour of an Apex super-saver return to Birmingham, to speak with Martin O’Neill, or to Lancashire, where Mark Hughes watches and waits. Neither, though, fit the apparent criteria. One is notably irascible, and the other boasts a playing CV which includes the four words which should rule any manager out of the running: “Manchester United, Chelsea, Everton.”
Instead, Liverpool’s head-hunters may find themselves in London, attempting to pick up the most likely and best-suited candidate. Experienced, established, stable and proven in Europe, Roy Hodgson appears to fit the bill more than most.
He is due a high-profile job with which to end a career spent in the shadows. He plays attractive football, and he will not expect a fortune to spend on players. True, his palmares are hardly dripping with honours – two UEFA Cup runners-up slots are the best he can offer among the world’s most illustrious competitions – but then perhaps Liverpool are not looking for a golden one. In their reduced circumstances, all Purslow and Dalglish can hope for is a silver medal.
He must be experienced, established, stable, capable of dragging Liverpool back to a semblance of normality after the fevered madness of the last six months. He must have a good reputation in Europe, a tactical brain which is capable of outfoxing his peers in Madrid (not Real, just Atletico, at this stage) as easily as those in Manchester (City, probably, rather than United, in Liverpool’s world of realigned priorities).
Oh, and he must be willing to work on the pittance handed down to him by his absentee American overlords, he must not complain when they remove money which was promised to him for the transfer market, he must enjoy seeing the goalposts shift almost at random depending on whichever rules Tom Hicks and George Gillett are playing by this week and he must radiate the warmth of a thousand suns so as to illuminate the cosseted lives of multi-millionaire footballers. He must also win the approval of Jamie Redknapp, arbiter of excellence.
It is no easy task. Perhaps, in their quest, Dalglish and Purslow may like to take in two scenes visited by the last pair to undertake quite such an unrealistic search for El Dorado, the optimist Candide and his philosopher-guide Pangloss. You know, the man whose doctrine stated that all must be for the best since this is the best of all possible worlds.
They could go to Lisbon, for the promising Jorge Jesus, or Constantinople (now Istanbul) for Frank Rijkaard, the former Barcelona manager currently with Galatasaray. Maybe Manuel Pellegrini or Guus Hiddink?
The problem with all four, though, is that the only attractive thing about Liverpool at the moment is the club’s name, and that may not be enough to tempt a Portuguese, a Dutchman or a Chilean, so deep-seated are the scars continually being scoured into the Liverpool’s reputation by Hicks and Gillett.
Instead, Purslow and Dalglish may find the inter-railing ticket ditched in favour of an Apex super-saver return to Birmingham, to speak with Martin O’Neill, or to Lancashire, where Mark Hughes watches and waits. Neither, though, fit the apparent criteria. One is notably irascible, and the other boasts a playing CV which includes the four words which should rule any manager out of the running: “Manchester United, Chelsea, Everton.”
Instead, Liverpool’s head-hunters may find themselves in London, attempting to pick up the most likely and best-suited candidate. Experienced, established, stable and proven in Europe, Roy Hodgson appears to fit the bill more than most.
He is due a high-profile job with which to end a career spent in the shadows. He plays attractive football, and he will not expect a fortune to spend on players. True, his palmares are hardly dripping with honours – two UEFA Cup runners-up slots are the best he can offer among the world’s most illustrious competitions – but then perhaps Liverpool are not looking for a golden one. In their reduced circumstances, all Purslow and Dalglish can hope for is a silver medal.
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