So I see that His Holiness, Bono, has ended up on the cover of Time, billed as the rock star who will save the world.

In which case, frankly, we can all bend over and kiss our arses goodbye. Jesus H. Christ On A Bike, what has the world come to when it winds up pinning all its hopes for redemption on a small tubby man in shades who happens to warble a few rock ‘n’ roll tunes. And, anyway, if those are the only credentials a rocker needs for sainthood how come we didn’t canonise Little Bob Story way back in the day?

“Who he, Uncle Sam?” today’s pop children ask. Only the man who wrote ‘Riot In Toulouse’, kiddoes. Only the man who played the Belfield Bar more times than even, er, Roogalator. Only the greatest French rhythm ‘n’ booze merchant of all fucking time, that’s fucking who.

But did he ever make the cover of Time? Did he fuck! In fact, I don’t suppose he ever even made the cover of What’s On In The Belfield Bar. But that didn’t stop him being Little Bob Story, the coolest small fat geezer in the history of European rock.

Yet you never saw him hobnobbing at the UN, donating his shades to the Pope or resting his feet on the great walnut desk of the Oval Office. Even though the man spoke fluent French which, in the world of sophisticated international power-politics, would surely put you a goal to the good going into any negotiation (apart from in the Oval Office, obviously, where nothing less than outright mastery of half-baked southern gibberish and Pentecostal voodoo would cut any mustard with the old pretzel-choker himself).

So, it beats me why Bono gets elevated, as it were. As far as I can see, all he’s done is immerse himself in study of the Third World Debt problem, discuss the complexities with experts in the field, arrive at some conclusions about the best ways to solve it and then, taking advantage of his celebrity status, take the time to press his case with those movers and shakers who might be in a position to actually do something about it.

Which is all very well – but how long would he last as road manager with Foghat?

Fart Pyrotechnics

See my point? The real rock ‘n’ roll heroes, the true saints in the city, are the guys who grease the wheels on a daily basis, performing selfless humanitarian work well away from the public gaze.

I’m talking about someone like Manmountain Dense, the heavily bearded 28 stone road manager who has been ensuring that the members of Foghat know what day of the week it is for the past 30 years or so. (Of course, it’s worth noting that the boys don’t have a clue what year it is; no-one has had the heart to break that grim news to them since about 1973.)

Drop The Debt? What about Drop The Dope! Jeez, I’ve lost count of the number of times Dense managed to flip the drummer’s stash or the bassist’s baccy into a convenient bin or loo just nanoseconds before the sweaty hands of the Feds were swarming all over the ‘hat rhythm section.

And who else but Dense would have the sang froid – not to mention, the wad of hard cash – to placate a hotel manager when he discovered that his ‘Presidential Suite’ had been turned into something resembling an illegal toxic dump in Wicklow, after an energetic game or ten of Nude Glueball, Erotic Curling, Fart Pyrotechnics or Pin The Tail On The Groupie’s Arse.

Not to mention sitting on the drummer to prevent him “taking on” the Copenhagen chapter of Hell’s Angels or consoling the lead singer after his “lady” done him wrong (again). Buying piles ointment in the chemist for the bassist. Waking up the keyboard player in time to catch the last flight. Carrying enough of other people’s dope to warrant a stretch of 30 to 50 in Sing Sing. Hiding the review which said the ‘hat were “about as entertaining as a bucket of puke”.

Manmountain Dense has done all these things and more on virtually a daily basis for almost half a century. And he hasn’t even made the cover of the RTE Guide. Yet, if you go by the name of Bono and you dream up some mad scheme for saving millions of lives, suddenly it’s “after you, Newsweek”, “No, no after you Time”.

At least there remains one great major media institution which knows enough to give the likes of Manmountain Dense the prominence and tribute he deserves.

So thank you Crimeline, the programme which should see to it that, even if he’s never on Time, one day he’ll actually do some.