As his biographer, I feel obliged to quote John Updike’s wise sayings — among them the first rule in his code for book reviewers: ‘Try to understand what the author wished to do, and then do not blame him for not achieving what he did not attempt.’ Too bad about the gendered pronoun; otherwise, spot on. Rules are made to be broken, though, and when it comes to Anthony Quinn’s Klopp, I have to say I wish there were more Klopp, less Quinn. In the prologue, the author warns us: ‘This book is not a biography of Jürgen Klopp.’ So what’s with the title?
Jürgen Norbert Klopp arrived at Anfield five years ago to take charge of Liverpool Football Club. He brought with him a high-intensity style of play (what he called ‘heavy metal football’) and a singularly seductive persona. Watching Klopp’s Liverpool has been a thrill, the fans rewarded last season with a trophy they’ve been hankering after for 30 years.
Watching Klopp has been equally satisfying. On the touchline he’s a dervish; in pre- and post-match interviews he’s almost obscenely charming — honest, intelligent, sensible, funny. He can’t seem to open his mouth without saying something memorable and downright decent. Which is why legions of people who wouldn’t normally register the existence of a football manager have fallen in love.
Quinn is smitten. I’m smitten. And so is the comedian Laura Lexx, who flaunted her feelings on Twitter:
If I ever met Jürgen Klopp I’d say: ‘Omg if we have a baby we should call it Klipp’, just so he’d raise an eyebrow at me and tell me I’m a moron, and I’d be so naked by the time he’d finished doing that.
Lexx’s tweet went viral and spawned a book, Klopp Actually (published by Two Roads), which carries on in the same vein for 132 pages.
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