So, after a whole mass of fannying about by the ad agency (are any of my jobs any different??? does any client know arse from elbow??? Pope/hat/bear/shit/woods?), I've collected the appropriate clobber and am Liverpool bound via Mr Branson's finest rail travel. I spend the journey with my favourite make-up artist, the lovely Panilla. We arrive pretty early, so I decide to put a call in to James the photographer, just in case... "Get here as quick as you can" he said "the shoot has been brought forward a couple of hours!" I hear...no real surprise, a common occurrence when dealing with the sporterati.
Get to Melwood (Liverpool training ground) and set to work ironing the lovely Bri-Nylon type sportswear (people under 30, worry not - Bri-Nylon is a thing of the past - the only interest you could have in it is its ability to make your hair look as big as Vince Mighty Boosh if you rubbed your tresses against it vigorously...ps, all sportswear is made of something akin to this sweat-making shite, even if they do dress it up with titles like Dri-Fit, Acti-Dry or TitSweatFree...er...made that last one up). Once creasefree, the gear is whisked off to be worn by our top Scouser.
There's quite a bit of waiting around (often the case despite the seeming urgency implied earlier). But then we get out to the training area, the lighting is set, and he appears. I've met him briefly once before (I used to be the stylist for the England team photographer, and set up the very last England team picture taken at Wembley Stadium), but I always forget how impressive these sporting types are in the flesh.
James has the lights set up, so Stevie G gets slotted into his spot and works his magic with the ball. And I forget how truly great sportsmen make it look so easy. And he's fucking WELLYING that ball, but it looks like a tap, no effort whatsoever. And then he hits one of the poly flats at the side of the shoot and breaks it clean in half. Gets a round of applause. I know from my old boss Mooney that he's a really nice fella, but he seems so serious, so focussed.
Gerrard's manager (Glaswegian, man-in-black raincoat, hard-as-chuffing-nails) suggests (yeah, you take that as a suggestion if you like, James, but he's thinking more concrete footy boots at the bottom of the Clyde if you don't crack on) that we might only do a couple more goes at this. James, ever the superstar professional and top snapper that he is, complies and he's calling it a wrap. All good, all happy. The lovely Steven signs a footy card for James's little boy, and I dare to say hello and send my regards from Mr Mooney, which wins me a pic on my iPhone (HE SMILES!!! IT'S UNHEARD OF!!!). Am over the proverbial moon, it's a game of two halves, early doors etc etc...
The smile (sort of)
Top day - working with my favourite photography team, snapping one of England's best footy players, at my fave footy club (a lifelong passion for this team - started with Mr Shankly as a kid, coupled with King Kev, Hughes, the Kennedys, Clemence, Heighway, Supersub Fairclough...glory days followed in no small way by the likes of Paisley, Fagan, Dalgleish, Hansen, Souness, Lee "he's fat, he's round, he bounces on the ground, Sammy Lee, Sammy Lee", Hansen, Rush...the list is endless, and I live in the past, after all).
Big fan of soundbites, me - I leave you with a couple of Mr Shankly's finest:
"Some people believe football is a matter of life and death. I can assure you, it is much more important than that".
"If Everton were playing at the bottom of the garden, I'd pull the curtains".
When told by Tommy Smith in the 1960s that he couldn't play because of his knee injury he replied "take that poof bandage off, and what do you mean YOUR knee? It's Liverpool's knee!"
Class.
(Postscript: we were shite at the World Cup. I mean REALLY shite. Bill Shankly would be turning in his grave, if only he wasn't a dour Scot, so he's probably laughing his dead tits off, along with Alan Effing Hansen)
