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Tony Wilson might have been known as Mr Manchester, and, if they had a mayor over there, who would have been more interesting or apt in the role?
But, in a way, the Mr M tag, created by the media, is a bit of a misnomer. That he did more for the city up the road, in terms of popular culture, than almost anyone else, is undeniable, but Tony Wilson, Salford born, had a breadth of vision and appeal that reached far beyond the rainy city.
Near to home, his eyes, and his heart saw the whole region, Manchester and Liverpool, as one big stamping ground, and he saw absolutely every reason to speak his mind about this place as if he belonged to the family.
That attitude often got him into trouble, but Wilson's fondness for Liverpool was sincere, and he was often spotted here, chewing the fat with other great and not-so-great minds, holding court and sparking out grand ideas for the city as they occurred to him, such as a great museum of pop culture down on the waterfront.
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He wanted to chair Question Time when
he reached 60 “because I'd be very good at it. I wouldn't be quite as good as
Robin Day, but I would be better than Paxman. I have the humility.”
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I was lucky enough to interview him on a number of occasions. It was ambition fulfilled, having come from a generation of Liverpool school kids who grew up doing their homework and watching the then young and urbane TV presenter, night after night, on Granada Reports, alongside Bob Greaves who was neither of those things.
Wilson brought a little dash of danger (if you were 11) to a very dull and worthy teatime news programme, and when he went on to introduce punk bands in the must-see Granada TV show So It Goes, and later What's On, the image, for us, was already complete.
In one particular face-to face I wrote up for the Daily Post, he told how he'd been running up and down the motorway for three years, unpaid, trying to get POP off the ground. “If anywhere in the world should house a museum of popular culture indeed it is Liverpool for the simple reason that popular culture became globalised in the 20th century and the primal act of popular culture is the pop group and the fundamental pop group is the Beatles.”
It didn't happen, of course, and Wilson shrugged: “Unfortunately I get carried away with ideas and the fact that they're wonderful.”
He became great for a soundbite after that, one of the people you'd ring if you needed a quote or an opinion on a big story.
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“Wilson!” he'd bark into the receiver on answering the mobile. “Yes, darling,” (he called everyone Darling, even if he hadn't caught the name) “I'm just driving.
"What do I think of Liverpool winning Capital of Culture? It's fucking marvellous isn't it? You can print that one for free. Got to go, love. Just jumped a bloody red light.”
He knew his worth and didn't give his thoughts to the media lightly.
Last year, on the North West Enquirer (where Wilson freelanced a sports column) we were going to run a big debate on which was the most important musical city in the last 30 years, with Paul du Noyer in the Mersey corner and Tony speaking up for Manc.
“Most important musical city in the last 30 years? Don't you mean 50 years? If it's 30 years you want to do then we'll fucking trounce you love," he yelled down the phone.
“You really want to put the fucking Teardrop Explodes up against The Smiths, The Buzzcocks, Joy Division, the Mondays? Do you really?” I paused.
“Make it 50 years, factor in the Beatles and Liverpool might have a chance. Oh, and come back to me with a couple of figures when you've spoken to your editor and we'll see if I'm interested. Goodbye.”
I never did. I knew we'd never afford it. Like Tony, the paper had big ideas and no money.
Factory and Hacienda came and went, but Tony's TV ambitions were far from over. He once told me he wanted to chair Question Time when he reached 60 “because I'd be very good at it.” It was matter-of-fact, as if addressing the school debating society. “I wouldn't be quite as good as Robin Day, but I would be better than Paxman. I have the humility.”
Tony was a brilliant communicator. He may have had a big ego, but when Shaun Ryder sang, “who's got the biggest brain?” he surely must have been a contender. And he knew it. A big loss to two great northern cities because there was nobody quite like him and, as Liam Fogarty commented today: “Every city needs a Tony Wilson.”
The fact that he's gone so prematurely, at 57, can only be irking him enormously, if that's an option. And in a world where nobody knows exactly what it's like to die, one can imagine Tony must be itching to be the first to tell us.
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