Danny Baker Saturday show might not be conventional, but that is precisely what makes it required listening He has been presenting the slot since September 2009 and specialises in an esoteric dialogue about football that's illogically familiar to those that care about it the most. His territory is unrecognisable as modern football broadcasting, because it dares to prick the bubble in which the sport now exists. Those who remember Baker losing his job at 5 Live in 1997 after an indignant threat to make referee Mike Reed "the sacrificial lamb" for all officials would be surprised at his gentler contemporary approach. Football seems to feature less and less with every passing week. This week's main guest was Boy George, whose last dalliance with the game was in a 1984 New Romantic five-a-side semi-final against Spandau Ballet which I have just invented. Of far more concern than breathless discussions about title races or relegation battles is the Sausage Sandwich Game in which Baker affords near-religious reverence to finding out whether this week's participant would prefer red sauce, brown sauce or no sauce at all in their sausage sandwich. However far Baker ventures down these magnificently irrelevant beaten tracks he will return with glee to the forgotten fringes of football: Sunday league matches in which more than one player in a team is wearing the number nine shirt; what happens on coaches on the way to games; a park game being stopped because the police arrived to arrest a centre-back. As host he is a verbal marvel, so naturally pleasant to listen to that his words would sound rehearsed if he wasn't so obviously led by wild streams of consciousness. There is a faux prose quality to much of his speech that's hugely at odds with memories of him hawking washing powder in full-on cockney mode in the 1990s. He also has a worthy foil in the relentlessly chirpy Lynsey Hipgrave, whose interjections arrive like misleading respites in a powerful storm. Their words orbit a near-constant soundtrack of irony-free musical beds that's a comforting journey from glory-era Hollywood to giddy funfairs. There is great skill in tying together such disparate nonsense to create something so cohesive and enjoyable. The propellant quality of Baker's infectious enthusiasm helps, but it's also a result of how singular his voice is in 2012. In a time when the earnest tactical deconstruction and its methodical ability to suck all of the fun out of football are increasingly popular, he is a crucial reminder that the game will always be about more than what happens on the pitch. Friends who bond over football won't remember Manchester United grinding their way to another title, Liverpool's travails in front of goal or how excellent Fabricio Coloccini is at defending corners. We'll remember the dubiously-sourced tales of Mario Balotelli's antics, cats on the pitch at Anfield, and how excellent Coloccini's hair is. The war for football's soul was lost long ago, and Baker realises that the best medicine is to focus on the absurd. He never patronises his listeners. Why assume that football lovers are exclusively interested in the actual football, that they only want things couched in its stifling cloak of clichés? In the end, the content of Baker's show is almost incidental, because the show is Baker. He is a ruthless curator of ephemeral anecdotes, endlessly delighted by meaningless frippery, lovably seduced by the lovably silly and a master of his art.