Liverpool advert reveals Anfield's delusions of grandeur Say you are a celebrity who has endured a chastening few years, in public and in private. Your star is waning, your stock falling. What better way to repair the damage and reinvent your brand than with a televised confessional? This, then, was Liverpool striking out for forgiveness, for absolution, for renewal, in the only way their American owners knew how. For the time being, though, we have to assume we will be getting more of the same, which is to say a glamorised hagiography of a former Swansea manager who went on a leadership course one time, and wrote down everything he heard. Rodgers is the undisputed star of the show. How else to explain the remarkable scene filmed in his house? Grinning from ear to ear as he walks us past the huge black and white print of his face on the wall, Rodgers introduces us to his wife Susan ("very patient"), her brother, teenage daughter Mischa ("she's just got her GCSE results, they went quite well") and her teenage boyfriend ("he was a model for Hollister"). When we were promised a mind-blowing, access-all-areas documentary, being introduced to Rodgers" daughter's "special friend" was not quite what we had in mind. The decision to portray Rodgers as an ideologically pure, sharp-suited Messiah will be a curious one to anyone who remembers his disastrous tenure at Reading. At the very least, he is revealed as a man whose talent for management is at least matched by his talent for management clichés. Being the Liverpool manager is a way of life. If it's easy, it wouldn't be worth doing. We were brought up not with the silver spoon, but with the silver shovel. It's not just about training players, it's about educating players. You train dogs. The player plus the environment equals the behaviour. Being: Liverpool? Talking: B------t, more like. How fascinating might this programme have been had it been made in the era of Shankly or Paisley, when Liverpool Football Club truly were exceptional. But no amount of flattering filters or Hollywood editing could conceal the fact that this is now a club mired in the mundane, no more or less special than any other. The documentary was, in essence, highly stylised artifice, all slogan and no substance; a confessional that confessed very little. Still, if it was a choice between this and a weepy, hour-long interview with Piers Morgan, they probably just about did the right thing.