Trust

One thing that the late and unlamented News Of The World was respected for (and for that matter, its sister paper the Sun) was its sports coverage. By this I think we all know we mean football; I'm sure Mr Murdoch didn't get where he was today by aggressively pursuing the Crown Green Bowls-playing demographic. There's no hint on the tabloid back pages that papers have any bias towards particular major players or teams, whatever skullduggery might or might not be going on under the surface. This independence reflects the isocline between the players and managers on one hand and the press on the other, and the suspicion with which the former regard the latter. Long may that remain so, if the alternative is the cosy punditry of Alan Shearer.

I mention this not because I care deeply about football, but because of envy. Sometimes I wish I could read a review in the Guardian's Review section, for example, and have the same confidence that the journalists were not mixing for social drinks with novelists; that novelists did not have a career path into journalism; that journalists did not have a career path into novel writing. There is a telling lack of honest loathing in our book talk, and when we do it, our criticisms are so broad-brushed that we can barely discern the guilty party. But we know that books can really suck, don't we? And not just collectively, when they're out with their mates. Sometimes particular books can suck, all on their own, in their own special way, whatever the hype in the media. And just occasionally, I suppose, writers work to live up to that hype they never deserved at the start.

I wrote a much more honest version of this, ten minutes ago, and thought better of it... By way of analogy, I might have called it Steve McLaren, England Manager.

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