Tom English: King of the Kop

DALGLISH turns 60 this week but he’s as revered as ever

A day spent in Liverpool, on the city streets and in the pubs around Anfield, makes you question the accuracy of Kenny Dalglish’s great mantra about no single individual being greater than this football club. It’s Thursday evening near the Shankly gates and Dalglish is everywhere. Dalglish badges, Dalglish flags, Dalglish posters. People talking about Dalglish on the road, people singing about him in the bars. In the official club shop they are queuing to buy limited edition Dalglish retro shirts, Dalglish mousemats, Dalglish phone sleeves, Dalglish mugs and Dalglish pennants. There are books and magazines and fanzines with his picture on the cover, all of them with various versions of the same theme. “The King is Back!” “Return of the King!’” “Kenny’s from heaven!”

There’s a level of hero worship here that is unmissable, an unquestioning faith that could be described as nigh on religious if it wasn’t for the fact that most religions have their doubters, whereas Dalglish, to the legions gadding about with his old No.7 on their back, does not. He defies convention. Out of management for ten and a half years and yet within minutes of the announcement of his return, order and hope were restored to a place that was sadly lacking in both for far too long. Last week he became a grandfather to twins and yet what grandfather would be photographed whooping it up at a Boyzone concert as Dalglish was a few days ago? This coming Friday, he turns 60, but he is the youngest looking 60-year-old on Merseyside.

“Aye,” he smiles. “Sixty. And you have to add the VAT on to that. It’s just an age, isn’t it? Doesnae matter to me what age I am.”

Jack would agree. He drives a taxi in Liverpool. In his own words, he’s a grumpy bastard at the best of times. He says he’s a Liverpool fan, but you have to wonder. Liverpool fans come with smiles these days and there’s one thing Jack doesn’t do is smile. Smiles cost extra.

To prove where his loyalties lie he lifts the sleeve of his right arm and shows you a wrist-band that commemorates the Hillsborough dead. You don’t ask his story because you sense there’s personal grief attached, but you question him about Dalglish.

No reservations about his comeback, Jack?

“The only reservation I know about is the one with the Apaches in America. It’s Kenny Dalglish you’re talking about. You don’t have reservations about Kenny Dalglish.”

None? Total trust? Absolute faith?

“He’s God and that’s all there is to it.”

We enter the bastion that is the Sandon pub two hours before kick-off against Sparta Prague on Thursday. Historic place, this. It was here where Liverpool FC was founded in March of 1892 and it’s where Tom Hicks Jnr, son of the hated former co-owner of the club, unwisely came to sample the atmosphere at the height of his family’s unpopularity, where he was famously shouted down and drenched with lager and practically chased out of the door with his minders in tow.

“The vibe has changed in here,” says John, from Birkenhead. “There was an anger before. Anger at the former owners, anger at Roy Hodgson, anger at being down at the arse-end of the table. Since Kenny came back, the atmosphere is totally different. Everyone’s calm. Everyone trusts him. I used to spend my nights on website forums giving out about this and that, but I don’t do it any more because there’s nothing to complain about. Kenny’s back and everything’s going to be OK.”

Later, after Liverpool have beaten Sparta Prague in Dalglish’s first ever European tie at Anfield as manager to go eight games without defeat, you go to a quiet corner of the room and ask him about the pressure of living up to these expectations. “There’s no burden,” he says. “I don’t think it could be a burden when you’ve got so many people on your side. Somebody asked me when I came in did I think it could have an adverse effect [on his relationship with the fans] if it didn’t go well. I said it would be quite the opposite. If I hadn’t taken it then they’d deserve to disown me. We’re all here to help the football club. If somebody asks for your help and you say no, then how are you helping?”

He looks well. Smiles a lot. Gives nothing away, but jousts with charm. “This 60th birthday,” you say. “A milestone in your life, a cause for celebration?”

“I don’t get three point for it, do I?” he says.

“No points, no. You’ll be the same age as Bill Shankly was when he left here, though.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, he was 60. Is that a bit weird, you starting all over again at the same age he was when he retired?

“Och, I don’t know if it’s weird, but that’s my age. I cannae deny it. I’m enjoying myself so I don’t have any problem. Age for me is irrelevant, really. It was just an honour to come back here.”

“As caretaker. The players have made it clear that they want you as permanent manager.”

“Aye, it still won’t get them a game!”

“It’s a formality, though, surely?”

“I don’t know what’s going to happen. There hasn’t been any conversation. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, the football club is more important than me. And whatever the football club decides that’s fine by me. Whatever they say I’ll go along with it 100 per cent. I said that when I came in and sat up there [on day one] and I’m saying it again to you tonight. It’s not changed in any way, shape or form. There’s no timeline, no discussion planned or happened. I don’t have any problem. I’ll continue to enjoy it and do my best and if we keep winning I’ll enjoy it all the more.”

At the Sandon they’ll tell you what he has done so far. He brought in Steve Clarke as his first-team coach. Shrewd. He promoted young Martin Kelly from the reserves to right full-back. Shrewder, still. Kelly has been a wonderful find, but then Dalglish knew all about him before. It’s been said, rightly or wrongly, that Hodgson hardly ever darkened the door of the Liverpool Academy, that he was a veritable stranger to the young players coming through.

Dalglish is on top of everything at this club.

He got top dollar for Fernando Torres, a player who no longer wanted to be at Liverpool, and bought a goal machine from Ajax, Luis Suarez, and the potential phenomenon, Andy Carroll, as replacements. Two for the price of one. At the time of his sacking, Hodgson was eyeing up Carlton Cole of West Ham and Robert Huth of Stoke. “Robert Huth!” says Mick, an Irish-Liverpudlian. “The new Paul Konchesky. Doesn’t bear thinking about what else Hodgson would have done with the Torres money.”

It’s been 20 years since Dalglish left Anfield. Most things have stayed the same, he says. The one big difference? “Only yourselves,” he says, meaning the number of journalists that want a piece of him these days. “No, it’s true. It’s the biggest change. I’d never be standing here this long after a match. We’d have been in the office with the second bottle of wine being opened. It’s not detrimental, it just shows you how much the game has evolved.”

He tells a story to do with the West Ham game this afternoon. He was 15 and had just had a trial at Upton Park, under the auspices of Ron Greenwood. His parents decided he was too young to leave home so he returned to Glasgow, but he came back with a gift from West Ham – his first proper pair of football boots. The ones he had before were immitations from the Co-op. “Aye, I remember the boots well. A pair of Pumas. They still fit me!”

A laugh and a joke and he’s away. Outside, the fans are gathered. They cheer Steven Gerrard and Jamie Carragher and Dirk Kuyt, Andy Carroll, Luis Suarez and Raul Meireles, but there’s only one King on this manor. Nobody bigger than the club? Maybes aye, maybes no.