WITH the head of a boot boy, the body of a bar fly and the feet of a ballet dancer, Paul Gascoigne seems a bizarre creature: an overweight yob artist, part Nureyev and part nutter. Ever since he cried for England at the end of his country's 1990 World Cup semi final against Germany, Gazza has been, arguably, the defining character of English pop culture: a patriot/prankster, a vulgarian/virtuoso, a mad maestro; in short, a blessed yahoo.
Cutting Edge, a documentary series which takes deliciously wicked pleasure in cutting through tabloid myths, spent a year trailing Gazza. What emerged was a portrait of the person inside the icon. Yes, there was some vulgarity, a few pranks and sporadic soccer sublimity. But, primarily, this was an attempt to reclaim Gascoigne for the human race and to release him from the media image and cod-psychology which have made him the most cartoonish of cartoon characters.
Gazza's Coming Home revealed a bloke with a more sophisticated sense of humour than the buffoon depicted by the tabloids. OK, his satire was not as sublime as his shimmies, but there were no strap on, plastic breasts or bare buttocks to be seen. Instead Gazza's comic repertoire showed that he has some irony in his soul. "Me dad's great," he said, deadpan. "He never asked for anything... except a house, a 740 BMW, a boat and a canny wage. Apart from that, me dad's been alright."
Later, Gascoigne, having left Rome's Lazio and signed for Glasgow Rangers, agreed to display his new Scottish home to the trailing camera crew. He led them to a modest terrace house and knocked on the door. A woman answered. "Do you use Daz or Persil automatic?" he inquired. So, it was schoolboyish and hardly the behaviour of a millionaire, national sporting hero. But he pulled it off with more charm than cheek and more bravado than boorishness.
Not, mind you, that the tabloid monster didn't have his moments. Gazza is not quite genteel. "You know, when Sheryl told me she was pregnant, I really shit me pants," he said. It is not unknown for such announcements to produce dramatic reactions from fathers in waiting. But few would use Gazza's colourful colloquialism to describe, to the world, the shock impact of the news.
Overall though, the problem for this documentary was that, in dismantling much of the Gazza myth, it inevitably dismantled much of the drama too. The same team, captained by Ken McGill, which made the "Do I not like that?" profile of Graham Taylor, found that, unlike Taylor, the real Gascoigne was less of a lunatic than the tabloid one.
"I'd rather do than think," he said at one point. It was a thoughtful reflection, almost negating itself in its utterance. But it was revealing. "I do, therefore I am" would appear to be the core of the Gascoigne philosophy and it was tempting to think that, too often, this chronically insecure boy man feels the compulsion to do what he thinks others think he should do. Far from being a free spirit, unhindered by conventional niceties and hypocrisies, Gazza appeared to be trapped by image and expectation.
At its root, the Gazza cult yearns to assert the authenticity of the pink skinned and flabby Geordie gurrier, who is able to humiliate some bronzed, continental Adonis. For the lumpen world of darts, beer bellies and bawdy behaviour, Gascoigne has been cast as a class and cultural warrior. Even though he came home to Britain in a pair of Gianni Versace trousers, he made a skit of them. He had to Versace, face it, is ultra uncool in Dunston Working Men's Club.
Remember that, when Gazza was transferred from Newcastle to Spurs, the St James's Park crowd barracked him when he returned in a white shirt. "Fattie," they yelled, "Judas" and most damningly of all...
yuppie". At this stage of his career, Gascoigne is too wealthy to be a mere yuppie. But the strangling, provincial, heritage industry begrudgery of his home town has marked Gazza even more viciously than Vinnie Jones.
Perhaps the funniest part of the programme was when Gascoigne was shown changing his son's nappy. "I feel like Vinny Jones," he said, cleaning the boy's privates and recalling British soccer's most notorious photograph of the 1980s. In that picture, Jones, slit eyed and with teeth clenched, has Gazza's manhood in his fist and it looks like he's not just squeezing, but twisting. Eight years on from Jones's assault, it's still impossible to know whether or not Gascoigne's antics indicate that he is not just waving, but drowning. But he will never seem just a buffoon again. There's a man there too.
NOT surprisingly, there were law men in Daughters of the Troubles: Belfast Stories. Focusing on the changing roles of women in the North, this documentary, narrated by Anjelica Huston, looked splendid. To be fair, it made some telling points too, but, ultimately, was grievously simplistic in assessing the likely effects of feminising the conflict.
For some years now, there has been, abroad, a partly propagandistic, partly naive notion, that a world rugby women would, inevitably, be a more peaceful world. Perhaps there would be less physical violence under such an arrangement. Then again, perhaps not. Either way, until such time as it can be shown that a world run by women would more readily facilitate conflict resolution, the premise remains untested.
It's not that women shouldn't become involved in politics. Of course, they should and, clearly, more are needed. But there was a glib, American feminist orthodoxy - complete with contentious assumptions, passed off as proven wisdom - underpinning this one. Sectarianism, after all, is hardly a men only poison. Anyway, while the programme was Gascoigne-ishly flabby in terms of the big picture, it was admirable on specifics.
Those specifics were Catholic Geraldine O'Regan and Protestant May Blood. Both of them were reared in old west Belfast, in the sort of Victorian terraced houses that since August 1969 evoke a peculiar combination of nostalgia and menace. Footage from the period, slipping into history now, looks like a cross between Coronation Street and an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie. The remains of Bombay Street, with a camera lingering on smoking ruins, looked like they were from another century.
Anyway, Ms O'Regan and Ms Blood, both former textile workers, recalled the years before the Troubles. Ms O'Regan used to like hearing the Lambeg drums and singing The Sash. Although she knew that the marchers would pump up the volume when they came close to a Catholic area, she liked the excitement and colour of it all. Not now, she doesn't, although, like Ms Blood, she regrets the loss of freedom which used to allow people to roam in the "other side's districts".
Certainly, these were impressive women. Less impressive however, were the attitudes of the west Belfast children interviewed. How would you know Catholic children? ... one group on the Shankill was asked. "They have ginger hair, they're stinkin' and their eyes are close together," said a young boy in a Glasgow Rangers Jersey. Over on the Falls, attitudes among young lads there, were scarcely more conciliatory.
But it would have been just as easy to get equally sectarian comments from young girls. Of course, that would have upset the big picture. On the evidence of Daughters of the Troubles, Geraldine O'Regan and May Blood - two women trying to make a difference - deserve support. But if at least in the early stages, such support is not forthcoming from many women, who is to be blamed? There's more than men keeping the traditional and corrupt power structures in place even if American feminism is loath to admit it.
STREETWISE, a new RTE consumer magazine, had a pace to it that Gazza would die for. Presented by Fiona McCarthy, Martina O'Donoghue and William Leahy, it was sassy and snappy in the modern style without undue narcissism or egomania. Given that the promo for it had been rather screaming in its enthusiasm, this was a bonus.
There were items on international phone calls (how to get them cheaper), private detection and surveillance, the small claims court and the cult of the Morris Minor. Imaginative directing, with just occasional lapses in its use of moody, atmospheric inserts, made it more visually attractive than most of its genre. Perhaps, in seeking topics with an edge intended to appeal to younger people, it risks losing older viewers. But its general brightness and energy justified its approach.
Whether or not its palpable eagerness can be maintained is another matter. But its opening programme, characteristically hip with zip, is the way to go. Generally, rest raining young presenters is a problem on such magazines and frequently the focus shifts from the topic to the talking head. Director Ray McCarthy appears to have struck a balance between torn and content. Now all he needs to do is maintain it. Fresh and promising.
FINALLY, not quite so fresh, if not quite so unpromising as it might have been, Gerry Ryan Tonight returned this week. Gone is the Internet segment, but retained is the mix of the flippant and the serious. Belly-dancing, a limerick competition, an interview with Bill Whelan in New York, some post-match (Ireland v Macedonia) guff, John Farrell as the "resident weirdo" and a sober item on priestly celibacy were included.
But, in spite of changes, the tone of the show careering between designer wacky and putatively probing matter of factness - is jarring. Intended as a star vehicle for the host, the personality that has served Gerry Ryan very well on radio has still not been amended for television. TV is a different medium which allows for body language, facial expression and other forms of presenter shorthand.
There is less need for long, involved, sub clause laden questions on television and really. Gerry Ryan might shine more brightly if he was more reserved and less conscious about feeling the need to perform. Like Paul Gascoigne, he appears to believe that the public expect him to behave in a certain way. Sometimes however, as Ruud Gullit remarked of Gasgoigne's poor performance for England against Poland on Wednesday night, "the simple pass is often the most appropriate and the most effective". Indeed.