What a carry on!

And so I find myself in Barcelona - both a perk and necessity of my job, so I'm not complaining - but getting here was another test of whether it is better to travel or to arrive.

I visit the delightful Catalan capital every year for a telecoms industry event, and each time I give serious thought to taking the train. Even if the reality of rail travel is not always so, there is something decidedly romantic and decadent about travelling by train across Europe. If it's good enough for James Bond, it's good enough for me.

However, being a work trip, spending half a day watching cows, telegraph poles and rustic charm fly past the window just isn't viable when there are things to do at the other end. So the plane wins and because it's a work trip, there's little choice of airline or comfort level. Again, not complaining, but as anyone who travels frequently will attest, taking the plane takes most of the strain. In fact, it is more of an exercise in ordeal management.

Since the beginning of December I have taken 19 flights, for business and for personal reasons. That, I recognise, might sound quite a lot of air travel, but it's nowhere near as much as those business executives who casually list "an airport somewhere" as a location in their Twitter bio. Certainly, though, it is more than people who fly just a couple of times a year, to and from a beach.

But no matter how often you fly, when you do you will encounter humanity at its most selfish and broken. You will be reminded - without any room for doubt - that travel doesn't broaden the mind at all and, in practice, appears to do the exact opposite. 

Firstly, you would have thought that in the 14 whole years since 9/11 the concept of "tighter security" would have sunk in. But, no. Some clearly didn't get the memo, a whole teenager's lifetime ago, that being "prepared to fly" means removing shoes, belts and overcoats, and taking liquids, laptops and iPads out of carry-on luggage.

Then to the next pain point: the boarding process. Here, no one airport, nationality or airline has the monopoly on stupid. It would be wholly wrong to single out queuing chaos at French and Italian boarding gates as simply cultural unfamiliarity with the concept of queuing, because American airports are just as bad, if not worse. "We will be boarding you by row number" should not be too hard to comprehend. Clearly it is, judging by those who consider this information inapplicable to them, and adopt the "Que?" expression of Manuel in Fawlty Towers when told that it's not their turn.

All that said, security queues and cretinous gate behaviour (and that perennial flying aggravation, the dickhead - because it usually is a bloke - reclining their seat for a journey of less than an hour's duration) pale into irritation-free insignificance when it comes to carry-on luggage. 

There are two aspects of this that we should consider: first, 'carry-on' should actually refer to a bag that you can, you know, carry-on, as opposed to dragging it like a Victorian rail porter handling trunks for the European tour. It shouldn't really require wheels, either, if it is to faithfully support the category it falls under. And then there is the insistence that because you can drag a wheely bag on board, everybody does it, leading to a recreation of the Ben Hur chariot race on budget flights as everybody charges forward to nab the overhead locker space.

When budget airlines first began, carry-on luggage was just that. But now, luggage has - like most other aspects of society: cars, fast food and teenagers - super-sized, requiring Airbus and Boeing to redesign their aircraft with those pop-up tent extensions that you used to get on Volkswagen Dormobiles. Because, there we all are on most flights, queing with one foot in the plane's door, while somewhere around the corner an idiot is trying to hump half their bodyweight into an open overhead locker a good foot beyond their reach.

There was a time when you checked in at the airport, usually at the crack of dawn, to be met by a slightly surly check-in person (not surprising, given the hour) clacking away at a keyboard for no obvious reason. In exchange for handing over your luggage, this person would give you a boarding pass, allowing you to skip on through security to gorge your credit card on duty free. And then, at the end of the flight, you'd assemble at the baggage carousel like an expectant parent at the school gate, feeling your blood pressure rising as everyone else's bags went past on the conveyor belt before yours eventually arrived like that last wheezing London Marathon runner dressed as Tower Bridge.

But in our instant, must-have-it-now society, checking in your bags is far too much faff. No, for the sake of saving 15 minutes at the other end, take your bags with you. And, thanks to Ryanair and others, you'll be incentivised to doing so by saving you the exorbitant cost of putting luggae in the hold. Which means people do everything they can to stuff whatever they can into their carry-on bags, which they then shove into the overhead locker without regard for anyone getting anything else in.

The airlines, however, are somewhat to blame for this. The lack of consistency in luggage limits is one issue: some airlines limit you to 20kg for hold bags, while for others its 23kg each. For those travelling in premium seats, you could enjoy up to 32kg...or two or more bags of 23kg each. Confused? For carry-on baggage, there is generally a 23kg weight limit and in principle some sort of limit on the size. Not that I've ever seen any rigid checking on either - people could have gold bars stuffed into their wheelie bag for all I could tell.

Not surprisingly, then, as passengers insist on bringing on everything and the kitchen sink, things can get dangerous. Late last year a writer from North London, Wayne Herbert, was reportedly suing British Airways after getting injured by a rucksack falling from an overhead locker as his flight waited for take off. "Passengers sitting in the row behind were trying to load too much luggage into the overhead," Herbert told the Evening Standard, "and dropped a bag on my head. It bashed me on the top of my head, and has given me a whiplash injury." A similiar thing happened on another BA flight, heading for Bangkok, when a bag fell from an overhead locker during takeoff itself, landing heavily on the head of the passenger below.

It isn't an exclusively British Airways problem, and most cabin crew I see make every effort to ensure lockers - like our seatbelts and tray tables - are secured before takeoff. But accidents do happen, and it wouldn't surprise me if the lockers themselves struggle to cope with what gets stuffed into them on a regular basis.

More must be done by airlines to make more rigourous checks for both weight and size of carry-on bags. And redesigning lockers is not the answer, either. Boeing was said to be working with the American carriers United and Delta to design luggage space to fit passengers' expectations of what they can bring on board, especially given the punitive charges US airlines charge for checked luggage. 

The problem, however, is not just baggage fees - people simply want to bring more on board with them. "For passengers, volume doesn't really matter. It's whether or not my bag fits," Boeing's cabin expert Kent Craver told the Daily Mail in 2012. They also want to stow their bag where they sit. "They don't want it 20 rows behind them or 20 rows in front of them, because that causes a lot of anxiety."

Understandable as that is, the potentially deadly fire that broke out last September on a BA Boeing 777 at Las Vegas' McCarran Airport highlighted the problem of hand luggage, as passengers were seen leaving the burning plane carrying their carry-on bags. Presumably they would have been reaching for them as the evacuation instruction was being given.

So, even if new planes like the 787 Dreamliner and A350 are designed with new storage space, until airlines get tougher on the weight and quantity of bags being taken on board, problems of the boarding process being held up - a cost to the airline and a frustration to both crew and other passengers - will never be solved. 

The healing begins - Eagles Of Death Metal at the Olympia, Paris

© Simon Poulter 2016

It was hard to tell whether this was closure or continuement, but we knew why we were there, and they knew why we were there. And, to some extent, we knew why they were there, too. "It's much more than just a show," the Eagles Of Death Metal's Jesse Hughes had emotionally told CNN earlier in the day. "I always lose myself in the music, but I'm going to lose myself in the kids, we're going to get lost in each other."

And so we did. All of us. Not in doom or despair, but the revelry of rock and roll at its most powerful, at its most uplifting and at its most fun. Those might seem trite sentiments but, just like the EODM's music itself, there was nothing pretentious or leaden about their return to Paris last night. It was stripped-back boogie, crashing drums, power chords and fuzz, and charisma by the truckload.

Perhaps, given the security at the door - heavily armed police, first, and then three separate pat-downs before even reaching the Olympia's storied entranceway - 'fun' was not going to figure heavily on the agenda of this potentially sombre of occasions. But the mood was light, rather than grim, the police and their machine pistols stern but not intimidating. And once inside, even the sight of those limping on crutches, still bearing the physical scars of that night last November, provided no more than a reality check that this night was about getting on with what everyone had intended to enjoy in Le Bataclan three months ago.

The mental scars, of course, were less easy to recognise: some said that they had figited nervously with their watches, checking for the 40-minute mark that, three months ago, had changed their lives. A few approached the counsellors that had been brought in to ensure that comfort was there for those who needed it. But - and this will sound corny, and I make no apology if it does - the eventual appearance of the Eagles on stage brought about an overwhelming sense of mutual love and, yes, celebration to the room, even if the reason everyone was there was, without overstressing it, for awful reasons.

Before November 13 last year it's possible that you'd never heard of Eagles Of Death Metal. Despite being in existence, in one form, since 1998, you may have avoided them. You might have been mistaken into thinking they were, indeed, purveyors of death metal, and therefore not your thing. Or, you may have been baffled by the construct of Queens Of The Stone Age's Josh Homme forming a side project with Hughes in the arid heat of California's Palm Desert, Palm Springs' blistering next-door neighbour, just down the road from the Coachella Valley.

Now everyone knows who they are. No rock band in the world would wish to be known for their part in one of the most notorious acts of violence of our time. But it's because they were on stage that evening in the Bataclan, and because they witnessed the same horrors as many of those in the Olympia last night did, that what could have been a dangerously awkward and even premature reunion became such an utter triumph. In fact, it became more than just a show.

As the lights dimmed, it seemed an age before EODM emerged from the wings. I'm sure more than just me wondered whether they would come out at all. However, the warm-up act - the delightfully bluesy Austrian duo White Miles, who'd been the support at the Bataclan in November - had done their job perfectly, and set up the audience.

For the headline act to not appear would have been understandable, but enormously deflating, but we weren't to be disappointed: as Jacques Dutronc's Paris s’éveille played out over the PA, Eagles Of Death Metal took to the stage with a defiant - and clearly tearful - Hughes declaring "Bonsoir Paris, we’re ready for this!". Mostly, we were too.

As Hughes took in great lungfuls of air, there were a few nervous glances exchanged in the crowd. No great surprise, to be honest. By the evening's end, everyone would be joined in euphoric mass communion, one that had only a little to do with November 13, and was largely a celebration of why anyone would get in a band or go and see one to begin with.

© Simon Poulter 2016

They began with I Only Want You, the first track of their debut album, stopping after a minute or two for a moment of silence, a challenging task at the best of times inside a pumped up concert hall. It may have been spontaneous, it may have been not, but if it was meant to be a token reflection of the underlying reason for us all being there, it was momentary punctuation. This was, in the words of Hughes - in his guise as Southern baptist preacher with a guitar - all about putting trust "in the healing power of rock 'n' roll".

"We are having a good time tonight - amen!", he declared, adding "Ain't nobody going to stop us." Hell, yeah. They rattled through the songs - 23 in all - short, sweet, slabs of loud, grungy pop, the kind that Bowie and Bolan made good, even throwing in crowd-pleasing covers like Duran Duran's Save A Prayer. Hughes and Homme may be the focus of attention in EODM, but this is a band's band, all of its parts - the Billy Gibbons lookalike Dave Catching and Eden Galindo on guitars, bassist Matt McJunkins and second drummer Julian Dorio all colluding to create a frenetic two or three hours of foot-numbing fun.

There was precious little pathos, thankfully. The Eagles were there to finish the job that had been so abruptly halted in November. But there were, too, 'moments': a crocheted red-white-and-blue scarf, launched into the crowd by my friend Theresa, made it's way to the front of the crowd and then around Hughes' neck: "I want to identify the maker of that scarf, give them a big cup of cocoa and a big old hug after the show," he declared. Let's hope we can make that happen.

As they enterered the home straight, Hughes disappeared into the upper circle of the Olympia to embrace a wheelchair-bound survivor of the Bataclan. The band continued on stage, running out of songs and seemingly resorting to Catchling trying out some Jimmy Page-like slide riffs. No one minded.

The Olympia - one of the legendary Paris rock venues - was, for the evening, Hughes' own chapel. In television interviews he has allowed his emotions to run raw. For all his audacious shownmanship, Hughes has been seen to channel the entire band's emotion. And as frontman, he did again last night. "Let’s make a deal," he asked at one point. "This is an emotional moment for me so if I fuck this song up, ain’t no one going to get mad at me." They wouldn't. They couldn't. They didn't.

The crowd lapped up favourites like Cherry Cola, I Got a Feelin' (Just Nineteen) and Stuck In The Metal, their take on Stealer's Wheel's Stuck In The Middle With You. After an interval Hughes emerged with a custom-built guitar that had been crowd-funded in memory of the Bataclan victims. Emblazened in the French tricolour, Hughes - on his own - plucked out part of EODM's Bag O'Miracles before explaining that he'd injured a tendon in a finger, perhaps through pent-up stress. That stress became instantly released by him faithfully playing Brown Sugar unaccompanied by the band, not that anyone would notice, given the enthusiastic "woos!" from the crowd.

It was at that point that I realised - perhaps dimwittedly late in the process - that, in EODM, we had everything we'd ever enjoyed about the Rolling Stones themselves, the self-styled "greatest rock and roll band in the world": a unique frontman, outrageous guitar riffs, infectious boogie, total showmanship. If and when the Stones do pack it in, step forward their natural successor.

And at that point, it was possible to feel that the reason we were all there to begin with had disappeared into the background. Three months on, it wasn't too soon, or at least, by the show's end, it didn't feel so. But that's not for me to judge. I wasn't there on November 13. For those that were, I can only stand up and salute their consumate bravery for coming out to see the Eagles Of Death Metal again. And, I can only salute the Eagles Of Death Metal for coming back to Paris to play for them. I am amazed by those who were there last night, just as I have every inch of understanding and sympathy for those who chose not to be.

Healing doesn't come from instantaneous gratification, we know, but from this music fan, who has stood on the sidelines while people close to him have worked their way out of the tragedy, I can say that if anyone was looking for the healing power of rock'n'roll, at the Olympia in Paris last night, they would have found it. I know, I did.

Arrested development

Of course it was all down to me. My first visit to Stamford Bridge since Christmas, and Chelsea pummel Newcastle United 5-1, the game largely won within the first 18 minutes via three goals that left the visitors shell-shocked. Clearly, my presence was the only explanation for Chelsea suddenly putting in a ruthless performance. At last.

The truth of the matter, however, is that Chelsea's performance yesterday was the result of one single, even straightforward improvement: confidence. Tactics, positioning and all that good stuff played their part, but as I spent most of the four months between August 8 and José Mourinho's sacking telling anyone who'd listen, Chelsea's problems were all psychological. They were simply broken on the inside. Yesterday they looked anything but. Incredible what a difference Guus Hiddink has made with just a lighter touch.

However, we should avoid too much excitement. Hiddink has merely arrested the relegation form. Chelsea are, today, 12th in the Premier League, as opposed to 16th when Mourinho was sacked. Victory over Newcastle was Hiddink's first league home win since taking over (the 3-1 result on December 19 could hardly be chalked up to the Dutchman, coming just two days after being appointed). But while this may sound ungrateful - it's not - the confidence Hiddink has instilled in his browbeaten and previously disinterested players will surely bode well for at least an FA Cup run and, who knows, the unlikely turnover of PSG in the Champions League.

Pleasing as it was to see a blistering win by Chelsea from my own season ticketed seat, the realist - some might say cynic - in me knows that Hiddink's task is merely one of brief containment. Any absence from Europe next season will surely herald an exodus in the summer. Diego Costa will undoubtedly return to Atletico Madrid, Eden Hazard will get to realise his ambition of playing for Real Madrid (unless PSG come in for him), John Terry will probably kick his last for Chelsea against Leicester City on the final day of the season, and others, like Willian, Courtois and Oscar, will probably get itchy feet themselves ahead of a new manager coming in.

And perhaps that is for the best. With 34 or so players of every discipline out on loan, and one of the most successful youth squads continuing to add to their trophy haul, surely even the most bizarre transfer policy at Chelsea must recognise that a generationally-rare opportunity to rebuild with young talent presents itself next season.

The question is how prepared Roman Abramovich and his lickspittle board are to let the Chelsea field lie fallow for a season. No Europe means no Champions League TV windfall, which means a relatively lean year with which to reduce the club's debt. And then there's the matter of a new manager. Who, of Europe and Latin America's potentially available elite coaches will be prepared to come in, work with a fresh young squad without the attraction of Champions League football?

A Manuel Pellegrini or a Mark Hughes might, but it's unlikely either will figure in the frame of reference of the Chelsea board, especially one whose ambition to find a replacement striker extends only as far as buying a crocked Alexandre Pato to cover for an even more crocked Radamel Falcao, who in turn was desperately intended to fill the gap left by Fernando Torres. See what I'm saying here? 

One sometimes wonders whether those in charge of talent acquisition at Chelsea really know what football is about at all, given some of the names that have come in only to be forgotten. So it doesn't bode well for the next choice of manager...unless, having been thwarted repeatedly in his attempts to sign Pep Guardiola, Roman Abramovich goes all out to land Mauricio Pochettino, who would be the best option for bringing a squad of youngsters up to European prowess.

Whatever happens, let's just agree that Chelsea today may have improved from the form they were in back in December, and they may well push on in at least the FA Cup. But they do, slightly, flatter to deceive. Against MK Dons in the cup two weeks ago they could have - actually, they should have - won by ten goals or more. The scoreline that afternoon ended 5-1, as did yesterday's. A useful reminder that progress and improvement, when you've been as deep in despair as Chelsea were, is still only relative.

Steady on now, don't go nuts

Picture NFL

Ever since Sir Freddie Laker started offering cheap flights to America in 1977, we Brits have soaked up opportunities to be, temporarily, American. The arrival of package holidays to New York, Miami and Orlando at a stroke afforded the chance to live out our dreams in a country we'd only seen on television via Starsky & Hutch, Kojak and, er, The Little House On The Prairie.

Thus we rented motorhomes, we did the fabled motel-and-diner roadtrips, we bought cowboy boots and baseball hats, we eat burgers that were patently different to the greasy fare slapped into a white bun at Wimpy, we hired big cars and we got carjacked within half a mile of the airport. Literally, we lived the dream.

Why we took to all this is quite simple: America was not Britain (and last I checked, still isn't). For starters, it had blue skies and sunshine, which in the late 1970s was a welcome change from the permanently monochrome ceiling of our island. And, then, America offered all manner of foodstuffs with which we could balloon to the size of a small house during our fortnight of queuing for rides at Disneyworld or, for those willing to brave a 12-hour flight to the left coast, Disneyland.

So, in the midst of this empassioned, hands-across-the-ocean celebration of Britain's "special relationship" (and at a time when Maggie and Ronnie were making "Coo-eee!" noises at each other via the disturbingly-named 'hotline') the UK's Channel 4 started screening American Football.

In truth, this bore as much sense as NBC or CBS in America showing live cricket, but in the spirit of Britain apparently holding the hidden desire to be a part of a America (hosting its cruise missiles and F-111 bombers, and replacing tracksuits with hoodies and sweatpants as general daywear), it was a canny ploy by C4. Especially as it enabled them to sell advertising time to American beer brands and manufacturers of "chips" (though we'd still prefer to call them crisps, as we all know that chips come wrapped in newspaper and drowned in an ocean of vinegar, rather than foil-packed goodness).

Gridiron may have its distant roots in rugby (and, to some degree "soccer"), but watching 30 men with ears that look like they've been constructed from Play-Doh by a four-year-old, rolling around in mud for 80 minutes, was a very different beast to what was being offered to Yank-up British home entertainment. We tried desperately to get our heads around teams of people padded up like the cast of Dynasty on steroids, wearing, for goodness' sake, helmets - HELMETS! - and essentially playing a licensed version of British Bulldog, for 30-second spells at a time over four hours.

However, sweetened by the taste of America that Sir Freddie and his successors had given us, and with Channel 4 beaming this bewildering explosion of noise, spine-shattering rutting, and totally OTT commentators making statements longer than the plays they were talking about, we took a typically half-arsed approach to watching it.

We may not have understood the rules, or why games lasted longer than a German opera, or, well, anything at all about it, but we happily bought into the hoopla of it all. We raided Sainsbury's of its Budweiser four-packs (not dissimilar to a six-pack, except that it wasn't one) and emptied small bags of Quavers into repurposed fruit bowls. Then we crammed friends and anyone else prepared to stay up on a school night to watch the game on our ridiculous 20-inch TVs in a loose attempt to recreate the American living room experience of a 60-inch set, family-sized bags of Cheetos and a large plastic tub full of beer cans bathing in ice.

Though it may seem to have lasted longer, British enthusiasm for staying up on a Sunday evening to watch live American football soon wained. Brave efforts to watch a Super Bowl, in particular, usually lasted no more than the first hour, before people zonked out ahead of the anticipated half-time show, only to arise from the stupour with the festival all over, amid much grumbling about 9am meetings later that morning. It really just wasn't 'us'.

You've all heard that hoary old trope "England and America are two countries separated by a common language" that George Bernard Shaw came out with in the 1940s? Well, it's not just language. British actors might be able to do passable American accents (example: most films and TV shows), but American actors can't do British, unless they're Gillian Anderson, whose ability to flick between British and American accents is uncanny. And rare. The truth is, we are two different peoples who happen to share large parts of a common language (for a more extended version of this point, look up Eddie Izzard on YouTube and his explanation of "herb" versus "'erb").

Which is why I was not at all surprised to wake up this morning to find my Facebook and Twitter timelines full of posts about Super Bowl parties, Lady Gaga singing The Star-Spangled Banner and looking like Dave Vanian of The Damned, the Super Bowl half-time show and its idiotically overhyped ads (not to mention what looks like an excruciatingly awful combination of Beyoncé, Bruno Mars and a possibly photobombing Chris Martin) - all exclusively from American friends.

There were pictures of food, pictures of beer, pictures of TV sets with pictures of the Levis Stadium on them, pictures of face-painted children sportingly supporting both the Denver Broncos and the Carolina Panthers (an awful practice now seen at Premier League games with two-club scarves hawked outside grounds), and so on. People had gathered, like Thanksgiving, with their nearest and dearest around them. People I would never have down as sports fans at all were celebrating this most American of holidays - Super Bowl Sunday.

No doubt there were a few Americanophiles in Britain who fixed matchsticks between their eyelids to endure what social media seems to have painted as a dull 24-10 win by the Broncos over the Panthers. But even by my standards of obsessive-compulsive sport viewing (yes, I have willfully marched in to the Old Cock'n'Bull in Santa Monica at 4.45am to watch Chelsea-v-Tottenham while downing a nutrionally questionable combination of Guinness and a full English), there seems to have been nothing offered by last night's extravaganza in California to warrant disrupting my sleep pattern for the week. Or that of my compatriots.

Facebook/NFL

The Super Bowl - like most American sports, now I think of it - is an exclusively American event. My transatlantic cousins may not have the first clue about the World Cup and its finale (when staged in Pasadena in 2004 locals actually didn't know what was taking place inside the Rose Bowl stadium), but they have a capability of elevating enjoyment and excitement of their own sports to a totally different level of hootin' and hollerin'.

In England, we might have our FA Cup Final traditions: the TV goes on at noon for interviews with comedians we'd forgotten were still alive and didn't know supported one of the finalists; and, at a stretch, the Eurovision Song Contest enables our womenfolk to screech their way through all the awful campness while us chaps pretend not to be watching from behind a newspaper. And while these might be social gatherings, with chilled beverages and snacks, they are rarely in the same league as the American nation's Super Bowl festivities.

For the Cup Final, it being a Saturday afternoon (assuming the latest sponsor hasn't moved to 11am on a Wednesday to suit audiences in China), we will sit there nursing a mug of tea and a KitKat; we will pathetically stand for Myleene Klass warbling through God Save The Queen; we will get emotional about Abide With Me; and then we'll get stuck into abusing the referee for 90 minutes. Sometimes, if we're lucky, we might be joined by a family member with nothing else to do, and if we're extremely lucky, they might not know a thing about football, but they're happy to watch this instead of catching up on EastEnders episodes.

Even communal pub viewing of a game of the FA Cup's magnitude is a fairly restrained affair, but largely because it is primarily patronised by British men who, as we all know, do not talk to each other unless absolutely necessary, and even then it will be to either trade obvious comments about a tackle (Bloke 1: "Should have been a card." Bloke 2: "Yeah."), or to enquire "Same again?".

The bottom line is that, despite media coverage of last night's Super Bowl across the British news media, I am supremely sceptical (or is that "skeptical"?) that many - if any - in the UK care. We have no birthright programming to appreciate it, its significance or its noise. We struggle to understand the nuclear physics depth of its statistics. And when, on a sunstroke-weakened moment we've bought one of those replica "football jerseys" at the airport, we just look utter berks when we finally break them out to watch the big game (Note: as does most American sports "apparel" on anyone from Her Majesty's shores).

We Brits have wanted to be American since the Pilgrims legged it up the Mayflower's gangplank in Plymouth and set sail for, um, Plymouth. But the truth is, we can't be. We look twats in baseball hats, we prefer our beer in pints and there is nothing - not even cheese balls - in our snack inventory to come anywhere close to the mighty Cheeto. Which as good enough a reason as any not to stay up watching a Super Bowl, ever.

Barefootin' - Steven Wilson at Palais des Congrès de Paris

© Marjorie Coulin - https://www.facebook.com/marjoriecoulinphotography/

I don't want to get, like, all down and gloomy and stuff, but the beginning of 2016 has been utterly depressing for music fans. That having said, the deaths of Lemmy on December 28, David Bowie on January 10 and Glenn Frey eight days later, could have been accepted by the wider world as, simply, any other 70, 69 or 67-year-olds getting caught short by nature's cruelty.

The difference is that their passing has drawn attention to the inevitable dwindling of a generation of performers who came out of the post-Elvis, post-Beatles boom, and introduced us to 'event' music. The Daily Telegraph's Neil McCormick described this age as the "Twilight of the Rock Gods", forcing us to respect that those responsible for the music that defined the latter third of the 20th century won't be around forever, and that those who safely survived their 27th summer are now becoming old men.

And thus, we accept Paul McCartney's hair dye, Pete Townshend's deafness, Eric Clapton and Keith Richards' arthritic hands and even John Lydon reaching 60, as those of us who came of musical age in the 1970s and 1980s creep into our own fifth and sixth decades, with fond memories of buying their records and listening to them from start to finish as we embraced their enduring greatness, rather than a fleeting stardom.

Luckily, however, there are still plenty of acts out there who continue to resist the lazy acceptance that we live in a Spotify age and "the kids today" are only interested in Autotuned singles streamed for as long as their attention span allows.

Because, thankfully, there are still artists like Steven Wilson who take time to write and record songs with the highest application of craftsmanship, who care about how it is packaged and presented, and who believe in putting on shows that leave the audience departing from the venue having been emotionally, aurally and visually satisfied. No surprise, then, that the 48-year-old Wilson is someone who grew up in an era when buying, say, ELO's Out Of The Blue, wasn't regarded as an ironic guilty pleasure, but an all-embracing experience, of which the music and artwork were all part and parcel of the same theatre.

Having been writing and recording professionally since he was 15, Wilson has built up a formidable reputation in the industry, via his band Porcupine Tree, and via myriad side projects that have spanned everything from industrial European metal to ambient drone music, as well as being entrusted by King Crimson, Yes, Tears For Fears, XTC and others to produce surround sound remixes of their classic recordings.

While he has been saddled with the "prog rock" label for much of his career, Wilson's most recent albums in particular - The Raven That Refused To Sing (And Other Stories), last year's Hand. Cannot. Erase and its recently released coda, the "mini album" 4½ - have demonstrated a arch talent for material that would give Coldplay or U2 a run for their money, in terms of melodicism, musicianship, textures and, yes, even hooks.

'Prog' is, in any case, a gross misnomer. Bowie was prog. Sgt. Pepper was arguably the birth of prog. But at some point in time 'prog' became a label with an angle. A recent review in The Guardian said that Wilson is "so progressive that much of his material doesn’t sound very prog at all". Well, exactly. What does 'prog' really mean when you actually listen to the music? With Wilson, the difference is that he simply doesn't get regarded in the same breath as Chris Martin, Dave Grohl or Bono.

But whether Wilson is merely accepting or tolerant of his status, it seems to pass him without obvious  concern. He has spent long enough being successful without being fashionable, respected by peers and even many of those now who created the very ground that Wilson treads. This, he does noticeably without socks and shoes on the stages of venues like the Palais des Congrès, a vast auditorium contained within a multipurpose concrete structure comprising a shopping mall and corporate exhibition space a single-kilometre straight walk down Avenue de la Grande Armée from the Arc de Triomphe.

As someone who takes the risk of tetanus or worse in his stride by performing barefoot Wilson is a remarkably grounded individual, and clearly contented to dance to his own tunes. The very antithesis of manic rock star diva, his philosophy is driven by a love of music - listening to it, collecting it, writing it, recording it, performing it. Not only has this brought him into close proximity of the very legends who inspired him to begin with, but has given him the respect to draw on the cream of session players for his albums and tours.

And thus, for this, his umpteenth solo tour since putting Porcupine Tree on hiatus in 2010, Wilson has gathered around him longtime stalwarts Nick Beggs on bass and Adam Holtzman on keyboards, Dave Kilminster on lead guitar and the supremely talented Craig Blundell on drums, a relative newomer to the Wilson gang. I strongly advise you to look them all up on Google to see just what sort of quality Wilson can attract to his side.

With Wilson there are no distractions of warm-up bands. After a very classy and respectful compilation of Bowie songs as the audience takes their seats, noticeably reflecting the early and Berlin eras of The Dame's career, the show is split into two parts - the first half comprised of Hand. Cannot. Erase. in its entirety, and then a second half featuring odds and sods from Porcupine Tree as well as the 4½. 

The Hand. Cannot. Erase. album - easily Wilson's most successful to date, and rightly so - followed a common construct of his by being losely based around a concept, the story of Joyce Carol Vincent, a London woman who died alone in her flat but whose body wasn't discovered for almost three years. This may sound very dark, but the album played with the variety of Wilson's songwriting. 1 First Regret 3 Years On acts like a traditional orchestral overture, building from video of an east European housing estate and sound effects of children playing to an emerging, pulsing sequenced tone, that cues a surging blast of guitar, that settles down to a beautiful melodic section of Wilson's voice and Kilminster's jangling Telecaster.

As the 'album' progresses, Wilson's knack for both pop and indie hooks is underlined. Hand. Cannot. Erase. chugs busily along, with epic, sweeping finishes, before the the voice of Kathryn Jenkins is heard over a drum machine, intoning 80s alt references like Dead Can Dance and This Mortal Coil, as the haunting opening of Perfect Life, a song equally between this very mechanical introduction and a beautiful chorus arrangement of Wilson and Beggs' voices in harmony, with Holtzman, Kilminster and Blundell providing a huge bed underneath it.

© Simon Poulter 2016

For Routine we are introduced to the Israeli singer/actress Ninet Tayeb, acting out the song's kitchen sink drama with Wilson as a duet. Tayeb (a connection of Wilson's via his work with Israeli superstar Aviv Geffen) returns to the 'story' intermittently, in between full-on band workouts and more gentler passages of the song.

In this piece alone any newcomer to Wilson's work would experience what I think his music is all about - a tapestry of light and shade, gentle vocals and epic blasts of hard rock, and a hairs-up-on-the-back-of-the-neck impact that leaves you wanting a sitdown.

It's easy to understand why journalists have bluntly branded Wilson a fan of Genesis, and he'll hate me for pointing this out, but there is much about the Hand. Cannot. Erase. album that is reminiscent, in a respectful way, of A Trick Of The Tail or Wind And Wuthering. He certainly knows Genesis (and even contributed to Steve Hackett's Genesis Revisited II album), but the influence is more infused than deliberate. Small things, such as the 12-string sound at the end of Routine, Beggs' work high up the neck of his bass on Perfect Life, or the ever-changing topography that on paper sounds mad but made real comes together with a breathtaking landscape.

With Home Invasion Regret #9, however, the band thunders into heavier territory, with complex guitar riffs, Holtzman letting his jazz keyboard chops rip as he leads the band into a funky groove, and Blundell opening up the traps by lending a very satisfying 'voice' to the rhythm.

Things calm down considerably with the acoustic-led Transience and Ancestral, with its 'Massive Attack-meets-60s spy film' vibe, before the first half is completed - as the album does - with the Happy Returns - Ascendent -- Here On arc, and its emotionally charged finale that closes the story.

Wilson may not possess a rock star ego, thankfully (and indeed none of his troupe, either), he nonetheless conforms to character by emerging from the interval with a generously-proportioned, Dude-sized White Russian in one hand to open the second half with Drag Ropes, a track from the 2012 debut album of Storm Corrosion, Wilson's project with Opeth's Mikael Åkerfeldt. In the excellent (if slighty sterile) ambience of the auditorium, it jumps about from pastoral choral passages to folky bits, accopanied by an extremely spooky animated video in the style of those Czechoslovakian films they used to show during schools programming on the BBC.

Next, Porcupine Tree's delightfully grungy Open Car noticeably gets some of the balding, greying scalps of the Parisian audience nodding in head banging-lite, before Wilson returns to his solo material and, first, My Book Of Regrets from the 4½ package, followed by the compelling Index and it's disturbing theme of an unhinged individual who collect "things"...

Wilson then returns vicariously to his tribute to David Bowie by performing Lazarus - his own song by that name, not Bowie's now meaning-laden track, but one with an uncanny reference to Bowie himself. It won't be the last Bowie nod of the evening, either, as Wilson and Tayeb later duet faithfully on Space Oddity as a further tribute, with Holtzman and Kilminster adding wonderfully respectful touches on organ and guitar, to render the audience in rapturous appreciation. Despite its apparent simplicity, Space Oddity is far from easy to pull off without sounding like a bad school concert cover. Since trying it out for the first time on the German leg of his tour, Wilson & Co absolutely nail it.

© Simon Poulter 2016

Tayeb returns for Don’t Hate Me, a song originally recorded by Porcupine Tree in 1998 and reproduced on the 4½ album as a call-and-response duet between Wilson and the Israeli singer. It's another rock-solid example of how it's hard to understand how Wilson has been largely ignored by the mainstream music media, including radio. It is followed by Vermillioncore, another 4½ track, and a thundering instrumental, one that wouldn't be out of place on a film soundtrack. If you've ever listened to the soundtrack album for Heat, you'll understand how Wilson's sense of the cinematic wouldn't be out of place in a film.

For all his absence from daytime radio, cover features in Q or Uncut, or showcase appearances on Jools Holland's Later..., there is little in Wilson's latterday catalogue that warrants references to obscurity. That said, there is nothing that suggests Wilson has compromised on what he loves for the sake of being more commercial. It's just, whether he knows it or not, he is, today, and I suspect always has been, gifted with a knack for combining rock and melody, sometimes in an unusual way, but never in a way that justifies the mystification generated by Wilson's lack of stratospheric stardom.

© Simon Poulter 2016

The final two songs underlined this perfectly. The Sound Of Muzak, a track from Porcupine Tree's In Absentia album, has the sort of energy that propelled Foo Fighters, Stone Temple Pilots and Soundgarden to their stadium-consuming greatness - anthemic without being bombastic, audience-inviting without prompting pop god cheese.

Wilson closes the show with a song that, I notice, genuinely moves people to tears: The Raven That Refused To Sing, title track of his well received third solo album which was a collection of seven elongated songs built around Edgar Allen Poe-like stories of the supernatural. Illustrated by another powerful film by animator Jess Cope, The Raven live tells a ghostly story of sibling loss with eminent grace, but also with a controlled sense of epic, building to its closing chorus of "Sing to me raven, I miss her so much. Sing to me Lily, I miss you so much" with the entire ensemble playing to their limit, leaving everyone in the Palais des Congrès - band included - emotionally spent but supremely satisfied.

Save for a 15-minute interval, Wilson and his band have been on stage for close to three hours. It's as strong a reflection of Wilson's work ethic as everything.

If, to follow Neil McCormick's hypothesis, we are now in the twilight of the rock gods, we shouldn't forget that there are those, like Wilson, who will be following, bringing with them the same investment in their work, never stopping recording, never stopping touring, applying themselves on others projects and side activities of their own.

This is how it always used to be. So glad that someone is keeping this particular torch aflame.

How you doin? A star in a reasonably priced motoring show

We are told that the 'new' series of Top Gear will be a disaster, before it has even launched. If we read the Daily Mail - and I encourage you not to - we hear that it has lurched from one calamity to another.

First, the Compo, Clegg and Foggy of motoring journalism - Hammond, May and Clarkson - took themselves off to Amazon Prime in the wake of 'Steakgate', and will continue their middle-aged mirth, "bantz" and casual racism/sexism/nameyourismhere-based automotive entertainment online.

Chris Evans was then named as the eventual new presenter of the BBC's lucrative programme-come-brand, prompting inevitable hrmphing about his suitability..or his likeability...or his knowledgeability. Amid gleeful rumours of things not going to plan in preparing for the show's return this May, it was announced before Christmas that executive producer Lisa Clark - an Evans cohort from his Big Breakfast days - was leaving the show after only a few months.

Since then, we've seen possible co-presenter David Coulthard take up a job with Channel 4 for its F1 coverage, with German racing driver Sabine Schmitz and unknown auto hack Chris Harris being described as poor replacements for the chemistry that the previous terrible trio developed during 12 years of "old-new" Top Gear. And then to cap it all we had pictures of Evans heaving up his guts after a spin in an Audi R8 while filming in California for the new series, with the BBC-loving Mail providing overt wink-winking that this is not up to Top Gear bloke standards (which the paper should know about, as it has spent long enough stalking Clarkson's every move...).

For those who have been almost willing new Top Gear to fail, the publicity so far has been manna from heaven. So, today, the BBC pulled a mastestroke by announcing that the first 'official' co-presenter will be Matt LeBlanc - Friends' Joey. Having appeared on old-new TG a couple of times, LeBlanc had properly demonstrated his petrolhead credentials, not to mention his ability to not get all actorly and take himself too seriously (a quality that netted him a Golden Globe for playing himself in the brilliant Episodes).

The masterstroke, though, is not simply the appointment of a suitable personality: Top Gear is one of the BBC's most valuable properties, and its old-new form, built up a global audience of 350 milllion viewers, a quite extraordinary feat in modern broadcasting, and a viewership any TV show would go to great lengths to protect.

Twitter/Matt LeBlanc

Hiring LeBlanc makes very good sense. For a start, he's as likeable as himself as he is in character. But from a business point of view, it makes even more sense - despite Friends ending 12 years ago, it remains ever-present on TV around the world, and is regularly mainlined during wet weekends via box sets and 24/7 Netflix availability.

Friends was, for what it's worth, one of the greatest sitcoms ever. Whatever claptrap gets spouted about its lack of ethnic or social diversity, few comedies on TV have ever boasted the same rate of gags-per-minute, which make it a joy to watch over and over again. And in LeBlanc and his on-screen relationship with Matthew Perry, a pairing as good as any comic partnership I've seen.

Unless he stinks the place up, LeBlanc will pull in the international audience the BBC needs. Already, his appointment has made headline news worldwide, with it even becoming the second lead story on CNN, behind the latest on the Democrat presidential nominations.While the other presenters are yet to be formally announced, with LeBlanc the BBC can calm the nerves of those in its distribution chain, who've been eagerly waiting Top Gear to return, and may have been spooked by some of the turbulance the new show has already encountered.

Whatever view you took of Clarkson, May and Hammond's antics, there's no denying that they created a phenomenally successful show, and set the bar extremely high, especially for a weekly "magazine", to use old-fashioned BBC language. Broadcast in its home country on BBC2, and seemingly targeted at the middle-aged men the presenting trio clearly reflected, it still drew a strong female following, not to mention being one of the few reasons anyone under 30 watched television at all. That is a powerful combination.

Bringing in an actor like LeBlanc, whose appeal crosses almost all ages and demographics (there can't be many people on the planet who haven't seen an episode of Friends), elevates the proposition, but obviously with it, expectations. We shall find out in May whether that expectation will be met.

The Pep in the Premier League's step that it needed

I am experiencing both dread and delight by this week's not-exactly unexpected news that Pep Guardiola will become Manchester City's new manager.

The dread comes from the fact that a patent talent - a Jamie Vardy or a John Stones - on the shopping lists of the big clubs, is more likely to want to play for the celebrated Catalan than opt for the managerial uncertainty and dysfunction at either Manchester United or Chelsea. Or the truly odd world that is Arsenal, who, once again, have started a season with all of the usual "This is our year!" and "We're better placed now than ever to win the league!" before it all starts to fade away in January. All of which means sloppy seconds elsewhere. OK, those are the breaks.

The delight, however, is the prospect of arguably the world's greatest club coach, currently, applying himself in the Premier League and bringing to it a pedigree that has netted, by the age of 44, 14 trophies in four years at Barcelona, including three Spanish league titles and the Champions League twice, and two Bundesliga championships with Bayern Munich in the course of his two full seasons at the club. That's beyond Mourinho form, and without the antics. Or the third season syndrome.

The Premier League will be, though, a very different beast to La Liga and its German counterpart. I don't say that out of arrogance, but just as players have been lured to England by the money and prestige of the league, they've also struggled or at least initially laboured to adapt to its speed and physicality.

Guardiola may be a master of innovation and guile, but he should not expect to have it all his own way, any more so than City, with Sheikh Mansoor's money, have done under Roberto Mancini and Manuel Pellegrini. But given the scale of Guardiola's proven ability, and the transfer budget that will be at his disposal, it's entirely possible that the once less-fashionable Manchester club could become the greatest in Premier League history, eclipsing their city rival in wealth and superlative, though not necessarily, one suspects, in heritage and status. But, then, that's the problem for United, as it has been for Liverpool. You were great, but what now?

Alright, this may be a little over the top. City have been there before, with preposterous, Galactico-sized spending that has still only netted the two Premier League titles since the Abu Dhabi United Group took over the club eight years ago. And it still hasn't won anything in Europe since the 1970 Cup Winners Cup.

We shouldn't, either, fall victim to creating a deity out of Guardiola. There's no doubt that he has set the bar high for exciting football and for applying an intelligent, cultured approach to football management. But even with the money, the existing squad and the potential for reinforcements, we should be cautious about installing Guardiola as a nailed-on cert.

That said, I have liked what Manchester City have done over recent seasons. It's hard for me to take a queasy stance over their monied resurgence, given that my own club has, too, benefited from the questionable largesse of an oligarch. But their arrival as a fourth big player, not to mention the somewhat satisfying sight of Manchester United's hubris being brought down a peg or two, has made the league infinitely more interesting.

There's little doubting that Guardiola will elevate City to another level, but credit should be given to Manuel Pellegrini, who is, in essence, a good manager, blessedly lacking in the histrionics of certain others, and who has acted with supreme dignity while the club has openly courted the younger Spaniard.

Though two different characters, there have been strong parallels between the Chilean and Claudio Ranieri's "dead man walking" period at Chelsea. Ironic, then, that both Pellegrini and Ranieri have been mentioned as candidates for the vacant job at Stamford Bridge.

Which is what makes Pellegrini a very interesting and unexpected candidate for Chelsea, or even the surely-soon-to-open vacancy at Old Trafford. In theory he could walk into the job at United (as would any manager given the opportunity - viz D. Moyes). But while Chelsea have been considering the likes of Antonio Conte and Diego Simeone - unproven, both, in the Premier League, and with no guarantee that they'd fit - as well as Mark Hughes and Ranieri, Pellegrini would bring Chelsea the experience of managing a big club with big expectations of quick success.

Pellegrini also possesses the sort of personality that Abramovich would like. He is without doubt a top manager, but unlike his former rival José Mourinho and all the manias that came with him, Pellegrini has demonstrated a knack for just getting on with things. Not for nothing has City been challenging for the title or fending off challengers under this refreshing character.

And what of now? Dignity personified, as he continues to compete for four titles whilst knowing for certain that his time in charge at the Etihad is drawing to a close. In spite of City's capricious managerial policy, Pellegrini came to Manchester with a very decent managerial record, from South America and then in Spain (look at his Villareal stats and then against Guardiola's Barcelona when in charge of Real Madrid). Even if this season, in which all the so-called big clubs have shown intermittent desire to win the Premier League, Pellegrini's ethos has been one that would also fit Chelsea's ambition for style of play and a style of success (on Premier League history alone, his win rate is third, behind Mourinho and Alex Ferguson).

At 62, and not, for example, the insane 34 years André Villas-Boas was when appointed to effectively restructure the Chelsea dressing room, Pellegrini would be the safe pair of hands that the club will need to pick up in the wake of John Terry's departure and following the restorative effect of Guus Hiddink, who will be 70 in November and unlikely to want to remain in club management for the long term. Moreover, Pellegrini would be charged with rebuilding Chelsea, possibly without European football next season, which is unlikely to bother his apparent lack of ego.

Yes, it may well take a fallow year for Chelsea to re-emerge with youth on its side, with the wealth of it in the current squad and, ridiculously, out on loan, exceptional quality like Dominic Solanke, Ruben Loftus-Cheek and the Brazilian Kenedy, all of which could build something very special indeed for the '17-18 season.

But back to Guardiola, sort of. With just under four full months of the season to go, Manchester City under Pellegrini still have plenty to deliver. Chelsea, under Hiddink, still have damage to repair and confidence to restore, with an exiting captain to maintain too. Manchester United need to do something to retore their status as the biggest club in the world and not a running joke. Arsenal need to give themselves a kick up the...er...Arsène and deliver on the false dawns they so unfuratingly - even for a Chelsea fan! - keep serving up. Liverpool need to calm down and settle under the delightfully eccentric Jurgen Klopp. And Leicester City? They just need to win the damn thing and put a smile on all of our faces.

Because next season will be a very different animal, with a Premier League "starring" a manager who has been coveted by more clubs than anyone in the history of the sport, who will be paid more than any manager in the history of the sport, and who will have more expectation placed on him than anyone in the history of the sport. And that means I can't wait for August.

For sale: one used Captain, Leader and Legend

For different reasons, and with varying degrees of emotion, yesterday became the day of two Terrys. In the morning, news that the broadcasting legend Terry Wogan had died, ending a 50-year radio and television career characterised by unparalleled wit, intelligence, charm and endearing self-awareness.

By the evening, it was news that John Terry, the most successful captain in Chelsea Football Club history and certainly the club's most successful homegrown talent in two decades, would be leaving at the end of the season after failing to secure a follow-on contract into his 36th year.

For the reasons we all know and don't require repeating, the contrast between these two people with Terry in their name couldn't be greater. But there is - or was - at least a common thread of loyalty. In the case of the footballer, there is mixed opinion, however, as to why Chelsea should extend his contract.

The club has made its position clear on over-30s, that they receive one-year extensions and no more, and ever since Roman Abramovic installed Andre Villas-Boas as manager in 2011, it was clear that the club wanted to ease out the old guard, players who, perhaps, had an unduly heavy influence over the dressing room.

JT has never been in posession of the fastest legs in football, and there's little requirement to point out the frailties that have been a part - though hardly responsible for - Chelsea's travails this season, but that is not the point. Terry may have been a dominant figure in the dressing room, but you got more than just a challenge to authority - you got the "Captain, Leader, Legend" so prominently proclaimed by the club's own banner strung across the tier divide of the Matthew Harding Stand.

To look at Chelsea's apparent reluctance - so far - to offer Terry a new contact is to look squarely through the restricting prism of the business mechanics of football. And, before we get on to the romance of football, which continues to overwhelmingly drive the sport - after all, isn't that what this weekend's FA Cup has been all about? - business mechanics have seen Chelsea sign players like Fernando Torres five years ago, Radamel Falcao last summer, and, now, Alexandre Pato - crocked strikers who continued to be a waste of money and the club's energy. And yet, with his lack of speed and public status as football's least-loved player outside of Stamford Bridge, John Terry continues to put more into the club than Torres, Falcao and Pato together ever would.

Before we get too carried away, however, the news of Terry's departure was just a statement he made himself, and may yet have been another act of emotional blackmail to bring Chelsea to its senses. The club have also issued a statement of their own today casting some ambiguity on the situation, to the effect of saying that Terry hasn't left yet, and things are still open.

John Terry has been an ever-present throughout the most successful period of Chelsea's history. You can easily question the ethics and morals behind Roman Abramovic's acquisition of the funds that have helped Chelsea to this success, but ask any supporter whether or not they'd go back to the ever-present threat of bankruptcy, of moribund seasons yo-yoing between the old first and second divisions, and even the old third division that once loomed ominously Chelsea. Yes, opposition fans, we do have history and, yes, I know exactly where I was when we were shit. Stamford Bridge. The answer will always be the same: we'd rather be where we are right now (well, a little higher in the Premier League, of course).

We all know those clichés about no player being bigger than the club, and that no player can go on forever. Terry probably believes that he can, but that is only symptomatic of the indestructable self belief that has regularly put his own head between a boot or a ball and the Chelsea goalmouth. What is truly sad, however, is that a club with 33 players out on loan (and probably more by midnight tonight) seems to have such an erratic player policy that it doesn't see the retinual value that Terry's huge presence in the squad can bring, especially to the younger players the club absolutely has to bring through.

Whether he has, as has been suggested, demanded a guarantee that he will be a future manager, he not only possesses a heritage beneficial to the players around him, but has a clear pedigree as a leader on the pitch. This leadership has diminished somewhat by the erosion of the spine that saw Petr Čech at is base, and then Terry, Frank Lampard, and Didier Drogba at its top, but the skipper continues to be an almighty presence on the pitch, in the dressing room and at the training ground.

© Simon Poulter 2015

"It's not going to be a fairytale ending," Terry said yesterday as he announced the ending of an 18-year run in the first team, which saw him replace no less a figure than Marcel Desailly and, as still a teenager, be bossing around more senior, more experienced figures with the authority and respect of a veteran. That was John Terry in 1998, and it's still not far off the John Terry of 2016.

So, is Chelsea making an almighty blunder, if indeed Terry does leave? Well, yes. Of course, much will depend on the incoming manager in the summer (assuming Guus Hiddink doesn't get permission from Mevrouw Hiddink to stay on). Given the range of options being rumoured - from old boys Mark Hughes and Didier Deschamps, Tottenham's Mauricio Pochettino and Antonio Conte, to Diego Simeone and even Claudio Ranieri - a new manager might not want Terry at all. Hopefully, any new manager will want to focus on the prodigious young talent Chelsea has floating about Europe, some in the squad, most out on loan.

But that should not mean that John Terry can't, shouldn't or wouldn't have a playing role at the club until the day really dawns when he has to pack it all up and become a coach. Kurt Zouma is learning more by playing alongside Terry in central defence than he would at any other club. Even Gary Cahill looks better when he has JT at his side. And New Jersey-born Matt Miazga - who signed for the club last Friday, somewhat suspiciously, too, given the timing of yesterday's news - could well be groomed to be Terry's successor by having Terry himself present to nurture him.

The upshot of this is that Chelsea still appear to be chronically naive and out of touch when it comes to what makes the club tick from its emotional centre. It should never have allowed Lampard or Drogba to go and, given the pounds it has wasted over the years on too many bad acquisitions to name here, it could easily have broken the bank to keep legends like these for the team's enduring benefit.

People like to pour scorn on the populist view that 'lifers' - the Gerrards, Giggs, Le Tissiers and Terrys of this world - are anachronisms, that football has long since moved on from being the community hub that made stars of local talent and built them from apprenticeship to retirement and beyond. And, yes, Terry - like Gerrard - has been tempted before by another club's silver, but they've been persuaded otherwise (or given in to fan power) and remained to be loved at the clubs they'd chosen to be associated with for all or most of their careers.

That is a powerful draw, but one which Chelsea's higher ups have regularly failed to recognise. Given that John Terry was the last homegrown talent to make a successful career in the first team - and that breakthrough was almost two decades ago - the myriad young players the club has now, winning title after title at Under-18 and Under-21 level, or farmed out to the four corners of Europe where, inevitably, the persist in being equally as successful - retaining Terry to help maximise these investments should be the business sense that Chelsea's executive management should appreciate.

It was then ironic that yesterday of all days Michael Emenalo, Chelsea's somewhat anonymous director of football and the man responsible for youth development and partially responsible for transfers, should appear for the first time on Twitter. Given the level of venting on Twitter over the Terry news, Emenalo is a brave man. It was he who went on Chelsea TV to talk of the "palpable" rift between José Mourinho and the players (which, given Guus Hiddink's obvious restoration of team confidence does seem viable).

But one wonders what role he has with the exhaustive husbanding of young players who end up on loan, while not being given a chance to breakthrough and create an exciting new dynasty of players at Chelsea. After all, John Terry was once given his chance - why shouldn't he be still there to do the same for another ambitious 18-year-old?