From a life long Liverpool fan. His comments humbled me and made me realise the power of the Liverpool family.
<Wtf is this blog? Are you taking the piss? I've already put the word out and we're currently organising an email campaign to have this blog shut down. It is disrespectful to the millions of proud fans of Liverpool Football club the world over. If you persist with this abhorrence we will hound you until you are forced to take action. Be warned, the Liverpool family is not a group you want to get on the wrong side of. We have taken on more formidable foes than you and come out on the winning side!>
Reply by BawkatRawk
<Dear xxxxxxxx
You're right. I'm sorry if my blog posts are offensive to you or you've taken them the wrong way. It's just that I have such strong feelings for Liverpool football Club, King Kenny and the Liverpool family that sometimes I get carried away - I am often brought to the brink of orgasm by the strength of my feelings and feel the need to release them before I release something marginally less sticky and disgusting.
As I lay helpless before you like a cowering Bulgarian, please smash the paving slab of forgiveness over my head, before shinning up the drain pipe of absolution, and taking your place where you belong - and were all along - in the bed of righteousness. >
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Charles Graham Adam
When the news came through on RAWK that Charlie Adam has signed for Liverpool Football club I was elated. I felt such a feeling of joy in my heart that I had a pseudo religious experience. Into a large man-sized tissue, that I had - at the last minute - found in my Wrangler jeans.
And then it all became so clear.
I suddenly felt at one with the world. I felt that my body and soul were part of a greater system of existence. I felt that I was on a higher plane and that nothing could ever supersede this feeling. Not even being given a large multi-pack of Flamin' hot Monster Munch. It was then that I truly began to understand what it is to be human.
And what it is about Liverpool Football Club that transends the mortal human soul.
You see, Charlie Adam did not have control over his feelings. Like a teenager in the flush of first love, Charles Graham Adam's head was in the clouds the moment he heard of the King's interest. He could not sleep. He could not eat. He could only think of the king and Liverpool Football Club.
Like a moth drawn to the light, like a bored man drawn to midget porn on the internet, and like a salmon drawn upstream to the calm pools of the mating chamber, Charles Graham Adam was drawn to the hallowed halls of Anfield.
Into the chamber of the King.
As King Kenny delicately, yet masterfully, intricately yet forcefully, passively yet directly assembles a title winning side he somehow takes on an ethereal quality. He rises above the minnions, scratching around at ground level for the dregs of the football world. He rises above us all and we raise our faces to him in trembling awe.
Ready for what He has to give us. All over our grills.
I pray to him and give thanks.
Dear King Kenny
This Gift...
Thank you for this gift,
Which you've bestowed to us,
This gift is life,
Life Eternally
Creation by your hands,
And the blood of your wrist.
I beg of you,
To live your life,
For all of those,
Who've been deprived.
I beg of you,
To live your life,
For those who've cried,
and been deprived
Of This precious gift,
The most precious gift,
The gift of Charles Graham Adam
And then it all became so clear.
I suddenly felt at one with the world. I felt that my body and soul were part of a greater system of existence. I felt that I was on a higher plane and that nothing could ever supersede this feeling. Not even being given a large multi-pack of Flamin' hot Monster Munch. It was then that I truly began to understand what it is to be human.
And what it is about Liverpool Football Club that transends the mortal human soul.
You see, Charlie Adam did not have control over his feelings. Like a teenager in the flush of first love, Charles Graham Adam's head was in the clouds the moment he heard of the King's interest. He could not sleep. He could not eat. He could only think of the king and Liverpool Football Club.
Like a moth drawn to the light, like a bored man drawn to midget porn on the internet, and like a salmon drawn upstream to the calm pools of the mating chamber, Charles Graham Adam was drawn to the hallowed halls of Anfield.
Into the chamber of the King.
As King Kenny delicately, yet masterfully, intricately yet forcefully, passively yet directly assembles a title winning side he somehow takes on an ethereal quality. He rises above the minnions, scratching around at ground level for the dregs of the football world. He rises above us all and we raise our faces to him in trembling awe.
Ready for what He has to give us. All over our grills.
I pray to him and give thanks.
Dear King Kenny
This Gift...
Thank you for this gift,
Which you've bestowed to us,
This gift is life,
Life Eternally
Creation by your hands,
And the blood of your wrist.
I beg of you,
To live your life,
For all of those,
Who've been deprived.
I beg of you,
To live your life,
For those who've cried,
and been deprived
Of This precious gift,
The most precious gift,
The gift of Charles Graham Adam
Stevie G laaaaaaa to miss tour of Asia
When I heard that Stevie G will miss the tour of Asia I was worried. I haven't been able to sleep thinking about it. About the fact that our talisman, our leader, our hero, the pinacle of all of our hopes and dreams - may be unable to carry on.
Just as Liverpool football club embark on a season that will bring the Premier League trophy to Anfield I'm concerned. I'm more concerned than I was when the surgeons told me my son would never walk again. He was knocked down on the high street of a small northern provincial town completely unassociated with Liverpool Football Club. But his tears that day remind me of my own now as the gravity of this potential situation sit heavily on my already burdened shoulders.
My son never did walk again - but that crushing event can get nowhere near the enormity of the fact that the great Stevie G - all power, drive and stylish hair - may be coming to the end of his glorious medal laden career. As I sit with a heavy heart I cannot summon the energy to lift my son out of his wheelchair to administer his daily wash. As he looks at me with confusion in a pile of his own faeces I know that somewhere inside his damaged brain he understands his father's pain. And that makes me proud to be his father - and a fan of Liverpool football club.
But then I stare at pictures of the King. As my tears tumble upon his glorious image I sense that He can turn this all around. Just like a newborn baby struggling to survive, skin on skin contact from the mother can breathe new life into the child.
And King Kenny and Stevie G have a bond stronger than that between mother and child.
So dear King Kenny. Please, for the love of Stevie G tear off your shirt and expose your bare chest. Take Stevie G's groin and press it against the warmth of your body. Gently cradle the injured groin. Breathe new life into the injured area. Perhaps, take your healing hand and gently cup Sir Stevie of Gerrard. Cup him until the pain and tears go away.
Cup him until you launch his ejaculate far enough to usher in a new era for Steven Gerrard.
And a new era for Liverpool Football Club.
Kenny's hands are kind hands,
doing good to all,
Healing pain and sickness,
blessing Stevie's balls,
Washing tired feet and saving
those who fall;
Kenny's hands are kind hands,
doing good to all.
Take my hands, King Kenny,
let them work for you;
Make them strong and gentle,
kind in all I do;
Let me watch you, Kenny,
till I’m gentle too,
Till my hands are kind hands,
quick to work for you.
Just as Liverpool football club embark on a season that will bring the Premier League trophy to Anfield I'm concerned. I'm more concerned than I was when the surgeons told me my son would never walk again. He was knocked down on the high street of a small northern provincial town completely unassociated with Liverpool Football Club. But his tears that day remind me of my own now as the gravity of this potential situation sit heavily on my already burdened shoulders.
My son never did walk again - but that crushing event can get nowhere near the enormity of the fact that the great Stevie G - all power, drive and stylish hair - may be coming to the end of his glorious medal laden career. As I sit with a heavy heart I cannot summon the energy to lift my son out of his wheelchair to administer his daily wash. As he looks at me with confusion in a pile of his own faeces I know that somewhere inside his damaged brain he understands his father's pain. And that makes me proud to be his father - and a fan of Liverpool football club.
But then I stare at pictures of the King. As my tears tumble upon his glorious image I sense that He can turn this all around. Just like a newborn baby struggling to survive, skin on skin contact from the mother can breathe new life into the child.
And King Kenny and Stevie G have a bond stronger than that between mother and child.
So dear King Kenny. Please, for the love of Stevie G tear off your shirt and expose your bare chest. Take Stevie G's groin and press it against the warmth of your body. Gently cradle the injured groin. Breathe new life into the injured area. Perhaps, take your healing hand and gently cup Sir Stevie of Gerrard. Cup him until the pain and tears go away.
Cup him until you launch his ejaculate far enough to usher in a new era for Steven Gerrard.
And a new era for Liverpool Football Club.
Kenny's hands are kind hands,
doing good to all,
Healing pain and sickness,
blessing Stevie's balls,
Washing tired feet and saving
those who fall;
Kenny's hands are kind hands,
doing good to all.
Take my hands, King Kenny,
let them work for you;
Make them strong and gentle,
kind in all I do;
Let me watch you, Kenny,
till I’m gentle too,
Till my hands are kind hands,
quick to work for you.
Monday, May 2, 2011
The Power of RAWK
{EAV_BLOG_VER:b3314518a9abd38b}
When I saw RAWK for the first time, I mean, I was overwhelmed. I couldn’t believe the strength of emotion that I witnessed emanating from this beacon of the internet. It was a light that shone so brightly, that my disgust at the mawkishness of the content was blitzed by a tirade of righteousness – that was enough to power the sun.
And that’s important.
Because the power of the sun is a force so bewildering,
that metaphors about its power,
expressed by Liverpool fans about largely meaningless situations,
can be forged with an energy so encompassing,
that the meaningless event itself,
becomes so overbearingly meaningful,
that the people expressing the emotion,
can become so deluded,
that they keep a sentence going on way too long.
Because they’re whipped up into a frenzy of orgasmic, hypnotic virtue.
And that’s where I stand, naked before you now. Caught up in the debauchery of unconditional reverencery. Touched by the gentle hand of the Liverpool family.
I’m a part of something. Something so big that infinity itself cowers under its enourmousness. And so does infinity times two. A feeling so strong that diamonds themselves could not scratch the impecableness of the gleaming surface. A yearning to write plaudits in groups of three in one paragraph so demanding, that the only reason I came up with this last plaudit, was so I could write some plaudits in a group of three in this particular paragraph.
I stand before you now. Converted by the King and his subjects.
And that’s important.
Religious metaphors. They ooze out of every pore of us precious RAWKites like sweat from a spent rapist after getting legged in Texas. They wash over us like a refreshing tsunami of joy – caused by a thunderous earthquake of hope. Sent by the footballing gods.
And that’s important.
Allegories related to human catastrophe on a massive scale in conjunction with perceived footballing injustices. Comparing oneself to a young innocent who is one minute kicking a can in the street barefoot, before the next crushed by a collapsing building – safe in the knowledge that his knowledge is so vacuous, that he knows not that the acids released from his crushed muscles will kill him long before hunger, thirst or his heartbreak at the loss of his mother.
That’s what it takes to be a RAWKite and a fan of Liverpool Football Club.
And that’s important.
Liverpool Football Club. Liverpool Football Club is the only way you can describe Liverpool Football Club. Failing to say Liverpool Football Club when referring to Liverpool Football Club is either banned, illegal, impossible, or a path to such ridiculousnessary that to come back from such an inadvertence, would be an exercise in miraculousnessness.
And that’s important.
Using long words that may or may not exist that you have found in the first thesaurus you came across when doing a search on Google. Words so indubitable in their incorpulessnessary, that to question their very subversavariousness is a sure fire way to find yourself in a situation of obfuscatariousness.
And this is important.
Breaking up every paragraph with a short line that is designed to imbibe greater meaning and seriousness. A line perceived to be so full of knowing, that God Himself cannot begin to understand its completeness. A line of such damning wisdom, that the prophets of the scriptures would look at each other ashen faced with embarrassment – at their ignorance of the comprehension of its perspicacity.
As I lie in fevered half-sleep, the motives and emotion of RAWK creep into my consciousness. They fill me with a fervour powerful enough to alter the balance of chemicals in my brain. They change my perception of the world we live in.
They change me forever.
So I stand before you humbley and proclaim from the highest rooftop...
Dear RAWK
Thankyou for existing. Thankyou for gving my life meaning. Thankyou for helping me live and breathe again. Thankyou for providing me with the greatest mastubatory material it has ever been the pleasure of my donnay sock to mop up. I bless the very fibre optic wires you reach me from, I pray for the very etc. etc. etc.
When I saw RAWK for the first time, I mean, I was overwhelmed. I couldn’t believe the strength of emotion that I witnessed emanating from this beacon of the internet. It was a light that shone so brightly, that my disgust at the mawkishness of the content was blitzed by a tirade of righteousness – that was enough to power the sun.
And that’s important.
Because the power of the sun is a force so bewildering,
that metaphors about its power,
expressed by Liverpool fans about largely meaningless situations,
can be forged with an energy so encompassing,
that the meaningless event itself,
becomes so overbearingly meaningful,
that the people expressing the emotion,
can become so deluded,
that they keep a sentence going on way too long.
Because they’re whipped up into a frenzy of orgasmic, hypnotic virtue.
And that’s where I stand, naked before you now. Caught up in the debauchery of unconditional reverencery. Touched by the gentle hand of the Liverpool family.
I’m a part of something. Something so big that infinity itself cowers under its enourmousness. And so does infinity times two. A feeling so strong that diamonds themselves could not scratch the impecableness of the gleaming surface. A yearning to write plaudits in groups of three in one paragraph so demanding, that the only reason I came up with this last plaudit, was so I could write some plaudits in a group of three in this particular paragraph.
I stand before you now. Converted by the King and his subjects.
And that’s important.
Religious metaphors. They ooze out of every pore of us precious RAWKites like sweat from a spent rapist after getting legged in Texas. They wash over us like a refreshing tsunami of joy – caused by a thunderous earthquake of hope. Sent by the footballing gods.
And that’s important.
Allegories related to human catastrophe on a massive scale in conjunction with perceived footballing injustices. Comparing oneself to a young innocent who is one minute kicking a can in the street barefoot, before the next crushed by a collapsing building – safe in the knowledge that his knowledge is so vacuous, that he knows not that the acids released from his crushed muscles will kill him long before hunger, thirst or his heartbreak at the loss of his mother.
That’s what it takes to be a RAWKite and a fan of Liverpool Football Club.
And that’s important.
Liverpool Football Club. Liverpool Football Club is the only way you can describe Liverpool Football Club. Failing to say Liverpool Football Club when referring to Liverpool Football Club is either banned, illegal, impossible, or a path to such ridiculousnessary that to come back from such an inadvertence, would be an exercise in miraculousnessness.
And that’s important.
Using long words that may or may not exist that you have found in the first thesaurus you came across when doing a search on Google. Words so indubitable in their incorpulessnessary, that to question their very subversavariousness is a sure fire way to find yourself in a situation of obfuscatariousness.
And this is important.
Breaking up every paragraph with a short line that is designed to imbibe greater meaning and seriousness. A line perceived to be so full of knowing, that God Himself cannot begin to understand its completeness. A line of such damning wisdom, that the prophets of the scriptures would look at each other ashen faced with embarrassment – at their ignorance of the comprehension of its perspicacity.
As I lie in fevered half-sleep, the motives and emotion of RAWK creep into my consciousness. They fill me with a fervour powerful enough to alter the balance of chemicals in my brain. They change my perception of the world we live in.
They change me forever.
So I stand before you humbley and proclaim from the highest rooftop...
Dear RAWK
Thankyou for existing. Thankyou for gving my life meaning. Thankyou for helping me live and breathe again. Thankyou for providing me with the greatest mastubatory material it has ever been the pleasure of my donnay sock to mop up. I bless the very fibre optic wires you reach me from, I pray for the very etc. etc. etc.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Fernando
It’s a dark day in the life of all Liverpool fans today. Darker than night. Darker than the mind of a paedophile. Darker than carbon nanotube carpet. Darker, more painful and more distressing than the black hole of Calcutta. When those 123 prisoners of war suffocated in the blistering heat and cramped conditions, they could not have felt as persecuted as us great fans do now. The greatest fans to ever walk God’s green earth.
Persecuted by modern football.
I feel as if the rug has been pulled from under me today. A rug that was once fixed firmly to the ground supporting my hopes and dreams - and allowing me to wipe my feet clean of all the hate and bias thrown at our great club by the media and fraudulent officials. Keeping my feet on the ground - keeping all of our feet on the ground because we are the most realistic, self-effacing, down to earth fans in the history of world football.
As the realisation hits that Nando may sign for Chelsea. I’m sat with LFCtv on, constantly refreshing the page on the official site. I have Sky Sports news on in the kitchen and I’ve set up the laptop so I can keep an eye on the BBC transfer ticker. On my iphone I’ve got the Echo website and on my desktop I’ve got RAWK (of course). I’ve borrowed my brother’s Nokia N900 and I’m eagerly checking Goal.com for news and I’m following twitter on my sister’s notebook. I’m getting any Facebook updates on me mam’s Nokia N97.
Waiting........ Desperate for news. Desperate for closure. Desperate to move on from the torture of this desolate limbo.
I can’t do anything else but wait. My 3 year old son is lying on the settee choking. He’s got cystic fibrosis and urgently needs a lung massage to remove the mucus caused by his decreased mucociliary clearance. But I myself am choking. Choking on the idea that our hero, our talisman, the one we thought was one of us, will leave us and take the 30 pieces of silver offered by a smaller club.
So my son will have to struggle to breathe a little longer - until the answers come.
Can you hear my son Fernando?
I remember long ago another painful night like this
When Rafa left Fernando
He was choking and confused as I was glued to Sky Sports news
I can hear him struggle for air
As sounds of your departure are echoing all around
And now you’re going Fernando
Every hour every minute seems to last eternally
I am so afraid Fernando
My son is young and full of life and I’m prepared to let him die
And I'm not ashamed to say
The news that you might leave has almost made me cry
He’ll be struggling for air all night
Till we know your plight, Fernando
But there’s still a chance for you and me
Ignore Chelsea, Fernando
Though my son has now turned blue
There's no regret
If I had to do the same again
I would, my friend, Fernando
Now he’s still and grey Fernando
And all day now I haven't seen a biro in your hand
Put us out of our pain Fernando?
Release us from this misery and let him live again?
I can see it in your eyes
You want to change your mind and stay close to the King.
He’ll be struggling for air all night
Till we know your plight, Fernando
But there’s still a chance for you and me
Ignore Chelsea, Fernando
Though my son has now turned blue
There's no regret
If I had to do the same again
I would, my friend, Fernando
He’ll be struggling for air all night
Till we know your plight, Fernando
But there’s still a chance for you and me
Ignore Chelsea, Fernando
Though my son has now turned blue
There's no regret
If I had to do the same again
I would, my friend, Fernando
Persecuted by modern football.
I feel as if the rug has been pulled from under me today. A rug that was once fixed firmly to the ground supporting my hopes and dreams - and allowing me to wipe my feet clean of all the hate and bias thrown at our great club by the media and fraudulent officials. Keeping my feet on the ground - keeping all of our feet on the ground because we are the most realistic, self-effacing, down to earth fans in the history of world football.
As the realisation hits that Nando may sign for Chelsea. I’m sat with LFCtv on, constantly refreshing the page on the official site. I have Sky Sports news on in the kitchen and I’ve set up the laptop so I can keep an eye on the BBC transfer ticker. On my iphone I’ve got the Echo website and on my desktop I’ve got RAWK (of course). I’ve borrowed my brother’s Nokia N900 and I’m eagerly checking Goal.com for news and I’m following twitter on my sister’s notebook. I’m getting any Facebook updates on me mam’s Nokia N97.
Waiting........ Desperate for news. Desperate for closure. Desperate to move on from the torture of this desolate limbo.
I can’t do anything else but wait. My 3 year old son is lying on the settee choking. He’s got cystic fibrosis and urgently needs a lung massage to remove the mucus caused by his decreased mucociliary clearance. But I myself am choking. Choking on the idea that our hero, our talisman, the one we thought was one of us, will leave us and take the 30 pieces of silver offered by a smaller club.
So my son will have to struggle to breathe a little longer - until the answers come.
Can you hear my son Fernando?
I remember long ago another painful night like this
When Rafa left Fernando
He was choking and confused as I was glued to Sky Sports news
I can hear him struggle for air
As sounds of your departure are echoing all around
And now you’re going Fernando
Every hour every minute seems to last eternally
I am so afraid Fernando
My son is young and full of life and I’m prepared to let him die
And I'm not ashamed to say
The news that you might leave has almost made me cry
He’ll be struggling for air all night
Till we know your plight, Fernando
But there’s still a chance for you and me
Ignore Chelsea, Fernando
Though my son has now turned blue
There's no regret
If I had to do the same again
I would, my friend, Fernando
Now he’s still and grey Fernando
And all day now I haven't seen a biro in your hand
Put us out of our pain Fernando?
Release us from this misery and let him live again?
I can see it in your eyes
You want to change your mind and stay close to the King.
He’ll be struggling for air all night
Till we know your plight, Fernando
But there’s still a chance for you and me
Ignore Chelsea, Fernando
Though my son has now turned blue
There's no regret
If I had to do the same again
I would, my friend, Fernando
He’ll be struggling for air all night
Till we know your plight, Fernando
But there’s still a chance for you and me
Ignore Chelsea, Fernando
Though my son has now turned blue
There's no regret
If I had to do the same again
I would, my friend, Fernando
Monday, January 17, 2011
Derby day
I awoke after dreaming of Flag day to find my Liverpool Football club duvet adorned in the splendour of my night time emissions - spent as my subconscious mind conjured up images of the King in his youth. Flaxen hair, draped over warm blue eyes, looking down on a cheeky street urchin grin – A legendary street urchin that had said ‘Please sir, can I have some more?’ And then had received more from the hard workhouses of European football. In the form of titles and medals.
Me ma brought my breakfast on a tray, as she does every day, to my attic bedroom and scolded me for my weakness, before patting my head with that knowing smile on her face. She knows how I love my football club – Liverpool Football Club. That I love it more than I love her. That when push comes to shove I always put Liverpool Football Club first. And I would run her through with a fish knife if she ever stood between us. And try not to get any of her guts on my shoes.
Two boiled eggs in my LFC egg cup, toast soldiers with the crusts cut off and a cup of tea in my 2005 Champions League winners mug. I can lift the cup every day. Lift it to my lips, where I can swallow everything it has to give me. And feel it inside me. Engorging me with the strength to go on everyday. Taking away the voices and unnatural thoughts. Thoughts that make me want to perform terrible vulgar debased acts.
As I ate I looked around me. Walls and pitched ceiling covered in glory. Title wins, FA Cups and European success. Sometimes I want to burn the house down. Late at night when everyone is asleep, Take a match and burn it all away. The hurt and the pain, and the world. I want to smell burning flesh and see the panic in the faces of those who have wronged me as they beg at locked windows. Begging to be saved from their burning tomb. But as I look around at this cocoon of red and gold, somehow it banishes the demons. Somehow Liverpool Football Club is all around me.
Keeping me safe and warm.
I took my medication and then headed out. It’s flag day so I had to make sure I got to the pub for 1. As I walked down the street my head was held high. Resplendent in my new replica shirt with King Kenny on the back – A 43rd birthday present from my mam and dad. They are so proud of me, but not as proud as I am to be a part of the special Liverpool Football Club family. A sense of kinship that normal people can only dream of knowing. A brotherhood of men. REDMEN. COME ON YOU REDMEN!!
I got a great seat in the pub and settled down for flag day. I didn’t have anyone to talk to so I sat and waited, and what should I see. Birmingham against Aston Villa. Birmingham against fuckin Aston Villa. They should have been at Anfield telling the greatest story ever told – showing the strength of feeling amongst the great faithful of the Kop.
The prejudice I was seeing once again in the media was palpable. It spoke volumes and what it said took me to places in my mind I never want to visit. As I looked in the mirrors behind the bar I noticed a look on my disbelieving face that I knew. It was the same look of desolation that my younger brother had when the doctors told him his 3 year old had leukaemia.
The mass media had turned on us again. Locking us up in a prison of prejudice, a dungeon of discrimination, a vault of vitriol. Why can they not celebrate the special bond between club and fans? A greater bond than that between mother and newborn. A stronger bond than that between the atoms in a diamond.
Because it’s too big for them. Too powerful. Too perfect. Too overwhelming.
When SKY finally did finally condescend to give Liverpool Football club some coverage the atmosphere in the pub was electric. The uproar of feeling and the surge of incandescence would have been enough to power a million generators. The explosion of luminescence would have been sufficient to light the dark side of the moon.
When the King appeared on the pitch I truly did believe that 2+2=5. That anything is possible. That He is the light of the world. I wanted to take him, tear at his clothes and paw at his bare chest. Lips locking in passion while I flick an index finger across his lightly freckled balloon knot.
I would do ANYTHING for that man. And I mean that. I mean it more than any conviction I’ve ever had. Tell me to do something for him. Tell me and I’ll do it. Whatever it is. I don’t care. I’d take a bullet for him. A Chinese burn on the bell end. You could stuff a thousand shards of cancer up my Japanese eye and I wouldn’t even grimace.
I would simply smile back with the forgiveness of His grace.
It started out as a feeling
Which then grew into a hope
Which then turned into a quiet thought
Which then turned into a quiet word
And then that word grew louder and louder
Until it was a battle cry
And once the glorious chorus of You’ll never walk alone began I was in rapture. Every nerve ending filled with orgasmic fervency.
Unfortunately just as kick off approached I was jumped by 150 Everton fans who stabbed me to death. They closed the road off outside the pub and everything.
Me ma brought my breakfast on a tray, as she does every day, to my attic bedroom and scolded me for my weakness, before patting my head with that knowing smile on her face. She knows how I love my football club – Liverpool Football Club. That I love it more than I love her. That when push comes to shove I always put Liverpool Football Club first. And I would run her through with a fish knife if she ever stood between us. And try not to get any of her guts on my shoes.
Two boiled eggs in my LFC egg cup, toast soldiers with the crusts cut off and a cup of tea in my 2005 Champions League winners mug. I can lift the cup every day. Lift it to my lips, where I can swallow everything it has to give me. And feel it inside me. Engorging me with the strength to go on everyday. Taking away the voices and unnatural thoughts. Thoughts that make me want to perform terrible vulgar debased acts.
As I ate I looked around me. Walls and pitched ceiling covered in glory. Title wins, FA Cups and European success. Sometimes I want to burn the house down. Late at night when everyone is asleep, Take a match and burn it all away. The hurt and the pain, and the world. I want to smell burning flesh and see the panic in the faces of those who have wronged me as they beg at locked windows. Begging to be saved from their burning tomb. But as I look around at this cocoon of red and gold, somehow it banishes the demons. Somehow Liverpool Football Club is all around me.
Keeping me safe and warm.
I took my medication and then headed out. It’s flag day so I had to make sure I got to the pub for 1. As I walked down the street my head was held high. Resplendent in my new replica shirt with King Kenny on the back – A 43rd birthday present from my mam and dad. They are so proud of me, but not as proud as I am to be a part of the special Liverpool Football Club family. A sense of kinship that normal people can only dream of knowing. A brotherhood of men. REDMEN. COME ON YOU REDMEN!!
I got a great seat in the pub and settled down for flag day. I didn’t have anyone to talk to so I sat and waited, and what should I see. Birmingham against Aston Villa. Birmingham against fuckin Aston Villa. They should have been at Anfield telling the greatest story ever told – showing the strength of feeling amongst the great faithful of the Kop.
The prejudice I was seeing once again in the media was palpable. It spoke volumes and what it said took me to places in my mind I never want to visit. As I looked in the mirrors behind the bar I noticed a look on my disbelieving face that I knew. It was the same look of desolation that my younger brother had when the doctors told him his 3 year old had leukaemia.
The mass media had turned on us again. Locking us up in a prison of prejudice, a dungeon of discrimination, a vault of vitriol. Why can they not celebrate the special bond between club and fans? A greater bond than that between mother and newborn. A stronger bond than that between the atoms in a diamond.
Because it’s too big for them. Too powerful. Too perfect. Too overwhelming.
When SKY finally did finally condescend to give Liverpool Football club some coverage the atmosphere in the pub was electric. The uproar of feeling and the surge of incandescence would have been enough to power a million generators. The explosion of luminescence would have been sufficient to light the dark side of the moon.
When the King appeared on the pitch I truly did believe that 2+2=5. That anything is possible. That He is the light of the world. I wanted to take him, tear at his clothes and paw at his bare chest. Lips locking in passion while I flick an index finger across his lightly freckled balloon knot.
I would do ANYTHING for that man. And I mean that. I mean it more than any conviction I’ve ever had. Tell me to do something for him. Tell me and I’ll do it. Whatever it is. I don’t care. I’d take a bullet for him. A Chinese burn on the bell end. You could stuff a thousand shards of cancer up my Japanese eye and I wouldn’t even grimace.
I would simply smile back with the forgiveness of His grace.
It started out as a feeling
Which then grew into a hope
Which then turned into a quiet thought
Which then turned into a quiet word
And then that word grew louder and louder
Until it was a battle cry
And once the glorious chorus of You’ll never walk alone began I was in rapture. Every nerve ending filled with orgasmic fervency.
Unfortunately just as kick off approached I was jumped by 150 Everton fans who stabbed me to death. They closed the road off outside the pub and everything.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Manure and Blackpool
So the euphoria of the last few days following the return of the Messiah has begun to settle down a bit. We’ve played two games now and with Kenny’s genius and the expert input of title winner Steve Clarke we should have had 2 wins from the 2 games. Unfortunately it didn’t turn out that way.
And I know why.
On Sunday Liverpool Football Club didn’t just play the 11 men of Scumchester United. They didn’t just play the 11 men and 70000 southerners either. Liverpool Football Club, the might reds, had a much, much tougher opponent than that.
The man in the black of Satan himself. Howard Melton Webb.
Stevie G’s red card was one of the greatest injustices ever in the modern game. When the card was brandished by Bacon face’s stooge I was so disgusted I vomited everywhere. Sometimes now when I think about it I vomit again. If I could vomit enough to reverse the decision I would. I would vomit and vomit until dangerously, life-threateningly dehydrated - until the enamel had been stripped off my teeth.
I would vomit myself into a coma. For Stevie and for Liverpool Football Club. But the corrupt Premier League wouldn’t accept my sacrifice. Because they wouldn’t dare to acknowledge my martyrdom. It would be too dangerous for them to do so.
You can search high and low, from Lampard’s disallowed goal at the World Cup to the disallowed Tottenham/Roy Carroll goal against the scum, and you won’t find a bigger injustice in modern football. You can include the people of Rwanda and Haiti in that search and you won’t find a group of people more wronged that day than the fans of Liverpool Football Club.
The most down to earth, passionate fans in world football.
The running Vietnamese children in the famous Life magazine photo could not have been as distressed as we were, as we stood in open-mouthed disbelief. Standing and staring at the big screen in the pub unable to take in the corruption we were witnessing. If we had been able to get tickets we would have been there but alas it wasn’t to be and we had to bear the malfeasance inflicted upon us away from our brethren. Our brothers. Our heroes.
Our family.
But, with our legendary humility and famous dignity we left Old Trafford with our heads held high. With our unbounded deference and unbridled stoicism – not to mention our unmatched restraint, we moved on. Moved on together, ready to fight another day with class and optimism. We didn’t walk alone. Because we NEVER walk alone. We held our heads up high and we weren’t afraid of the dark.
Sadly the fraudulent officials and the Liverpool Football Club hating media conspired against us. Chipping away at us at every opportunity. Waiting for us to fail so they could pick through the ashes of our great club – Liverpool Football Club - with their interrogating gnarled sticks. Like a pack of baying hyenas waiting for the proudest, strongest Lion in the jungle to waver so they can pounce under cover of darkness and tear it to pieces.
Nobody could perform under that pressure. No men could be expected to go out in the next game against Blackpool and win under such intense scrutiny. Eleven men and their leader against the spiteful seething mob. A cauldron of hate. A cauldron of fraud.
And yet we came so close. Came so close to garnering an impossible 3 points against immeasurable odds. An insurmountable obstacle. Unpassable rapids of cynicism. But we almost climbed that mountain. Nando and the King had climbed on ahead and set up basecamp using every sinew to haul us closer to the summit – together. But an ill wind had already blown in from the criminals with power in the game. People who are rotten to their very core. And the white out drove us back.
But now the King has got Torres firing again I see bright times ahead. The sun is rising over the blessed, handing down its life bringing radiance. With Steve Clarke at the right hand of King Kenny we can come through the storm and walk on. Walk on with hope in our hearts.
When the flags are waving for the King on Sunday against the bitters the sheer overwhelming wave of emotion will be enough to ride roughshod over even the greatest of opponents. I’m welling up just thinking about the strength of feeling that we will witness. Now I’m crying a sea of tears...... Tears of hope..... Tears of love........ Now I'm pressing my fingers hard and deep into my temples and shaking uncontrollably.............. Now I'm masturbating..... furiously....... With the curtains open. My tears and semen flowing together in a river of reverence.
When the flags are waving for the King on Sunday against the bitters the sheer overwhelming wave of emotion will be enough to ride roughshod over even the greatest of opponents. I’m welling up just thinking about the strength of feeling that we will witness. Now I’m crying a sea of tears...... Tears of hope..... Tears of love........ Now I'm pressing my fingers hard and deep into my temples and shaking uncontrollably.............. Now I'm masturbating..... furiously....... With the curtains open. My tears and semen flowing together in a river of reverence.
Reverence for Liverpool Football Club.
It will be a magical day. A day when the Holy Trinity will truly be resurrected and the world will stand in open-mouthed awe as we set off on a run that will take us all the way to the promised land of the Champions League.
Musings about our King Kenny
Since the King came back I have to say I’ve felt a little unsettled. I’m a married man with 3 kids. I’m 45 and my wife’s 43. Now that the whirlwind of the last few days has settled down a bit I’d like to share my thoughts and feelings with you all.
I, like everyone here was absolutely overjoyed when the great man returned to brush aside the hurt and pain of the previous tenure. I can now see a bright future for the football club – Liverpool Football Club.
But it’s more than that.
My feelings for the man extend beyond football. The love I feel for him fills me with a joy I could only hope to know before. His closeness to us gives me a hope I’d never thought possible. The emotion I felt the day my kids were born is insignificant when compared with the ecstasy in my heart and mind when I think of the King. I feel giddy and light headed and I want this feeling to last forever.
But it’s more than that.
I want in some way to have physical satisfaction for my feelings. As I raise my head to the heavens to feel the love of the King, I somehow want him all over my face. I want to feel him inside me. Slowly at first, but then more firmly, as he takes control. Control of a situation that has been out of control for so so long. Too long.
Too long for us long suffering, salt of the earth fans.
I feel that this consummation can give us all the strength for the future. The strength to overcome the challenges that lay ahead. The strength to see that even in an imperfect world, there are moments of pure clarity when the stars align and the majesty of nature collectively comes together to produce real beauty. Beauty that can never be surpassed or tarnished.
And when we lay there in our post coital Nirvana we will both be 100% certain that Liverpool Football Club will move forward empowered. Emboldened by the coming together of us all - where our success can flourish and our love can grow and grow. Love that is too strong to be denied. Love that is too pure to be refuted.
A love for Liverpool Football Club that is greater than the love we feel for our own flesh and blood.
I, like everyone here was absolutely overjoyed when the great man returned to brush aside the hurt and pain of the previous tenure. I can now see a bright future for the football club – Liverpool Football Club.
But it’s more than that.
My feelings for the man extend beyond football. The love I feel for him fills me with a joy I could only hope to know before. His closeness to us gives me a hope I’d never thought possible. The emotion I felt the day my kids were born is insignificant when compared with the ecstasy in my heart and mind when I think of the King. I feel giddy and light headed and I want this feeling to last forever.
But it’s more than that.
I want in some way to have physical satisfaction for my feelings. As I raise my head to the heavens to feel the love of the King, I somehow want him all over my face. I want to feel him inside me. Slowly at first, but then more firmly, as he takes control. Control of a situation that has been out of control for so so long. Too long.
Too long for us long suffering, salt of the earth fans.
I feel that this consummation can give us all the strength for the future. The strength to overcome the challenges that lay ahead. The strength to see that even in an imperfect world, there are moments of pure clarity when the stars align and the majesty of nature collectively comes together to produce real beauty. Beauty that can never be surpassed or tarnished.
And when we lay there in our post coital Nirvana we will both be 100% certain that Liverpool Football Club will move forward empowered. Emboldened by the coming together of us all - where our success can flourish and our love can grow and grow. Love that is too strong to be denied. Love that is too pure to be refuted.
A love for Liverpool Football Club that is greater than the love we feel for our own flesh and blood.
Steve Clarke IN!
When I heard that Steve Clarke was to become the King's number two I was overwhelmed. It was a similar feeling to the feeling I felt when my 2 year old beat cancer (he’s also a red :o)) . It was like the heavens had opened and a great gift had been passed down. Passed down to the righteous. Passed down to the chosen. Passed down to the King.
Passed down to Liverpool Football Club.
We didn't have to wait long, after the demons had been exorcised from the hallowed halls of Anfield by the return of The Great One, before champions of the game came calling. Calling upon the unique and special Liverpool family. Calling for a place at the table of legends. Where masters of the game had gorged on the opposition. Gorged until they were full. And then gorged some more.
Steve Clarke is the first of many. Everyone now wants to sit at King Kenny's table. The magic circle. Where dreams are achieved and memories are made. A table of heroes. A table of legends. A table of heroes.
And we WILL climb our own table. We will fight until we are spent. And we will keep coming. Keep bouncing. WE'RE GOING TO BOUNCE IN A MINUTE!!!!!!!!!
Believe me people. Have faith. Clasp your hands together as tightly as you can. Clasp your hands so tightly that your fingers turn blue and you get cramp in your biceps. Close your eyes so tightly that the acids released by the compressed muscles in your eye sockets permanently damage your eyesight. Because its ONLY together that we can achieve this. Stand as one behind the King with your sword in your hand and let out a mighty roar. A roar that can be heard up and down our great land.
And when Liverpool Football Club stand again at the summit, we will truly know the mind of the football Gods.
Passed down to Liverpool Football Club.
We didn't have to wait long, after the demons had been exorcised from the hallowed halls of Anfield by the return of The Great One, before champions of the game came calling. Calling upon the unique and special Liverpool family. Calling for a place at the table of legends. Where masters of the game had gorged on the opposition. Gorged until they were full. And then gorged some more.
Steve Clarke is the first of many. Everyone now wants to sit at King Kenny's table. The magic circle. Where dreams are achieved and memories are made. A table of heroes. A table of legends. A table of heroes.
And we WILL climb our own table. We will fight until we are spent. And we will keep coming. Keep bouncing. WE'RE GOING TO BOUNCE IN A MINUTE!!!!!!!!!
Believe me people. Have faith. Clasp your hands together as tightly as you can. Clasp your hands so tightly that your fingers turn blue and you get cramp in your biceps. Close your eyes so tightly that the acids released by the compressed muscles in your eye sockets permanently damage your eyesight. Because its ONLY together that we can achieve this. Stand as one behind the King with your sword in your hand and let out a mighty roar. A roar that can be heard up and down our great land.
And when Liverpool Football Club stand again at the summit, we will truly know the mind of the football Gods.
Gareth Bale
I've just heard that King Kenny is interested in bringing Gareth Bale to Liverpool Football Club!
Well go out and buy your replica shirt with his name on because it's a done deal now. It's as certain as the sun rising in the morning and setting again in the evening. As certain as the moon appearing after the sun has set and then disappearing as the new morning heralds a bright new day for us long suffering fans. The best fans in the world. Fans that no other club can match.
Why is it certain I hear you ask. Sure, in normal circumstances the deal would only be 90% certain. Upon hearing that the mighty Liverpool Football Club - 5 times winners of Europe's premier club competition - were interested in him, the Welsh wizard would certainly want to come. He would come because he knows football. And he knows what Liverpool Football Club mean in world football to literally billions of people. Billions of people all over the world who have suffered the worst injustices known to man over the last 3 years - suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune at the hands of our former owners and previous manager.
I can't speak their names because if I did my blood pressure would rise to alarming levels that my heart and the blood vessels in my brain simply could not stand. Although, if I was to have a massive heart attack or fatal brain aneurysm, my pain and the pain of my family would pale into insignificance when compared with the pain those bastards, whose names I cannot countenance, inflicted on our club - Liverpool Football Club.
So what makes up the extra 10%? I'll tell you what makes up the extra 10%. What makes up the extra mile you need to finish a marathon? I'll tell you what can give you the extra strength to cross the finish line. What gives you the extra inch that determines success from failure? I'll tell you what can deliver you from despair. The extra millimetre that decides life and death when you take a bullet to the chest? I'll tell you what can fill your heart with the power to deflect hot lead travelling at 146 mph.
Kenny Dalglish.
A man who cannot be ignored. A great man. A man with greater compassion than Mother Theresa. A man with more dignity than Ghandi. A man with more integrity than Nelson Mandela.
A man for Liverpool Football Club.
So Dear Gareth
I have only one thing to say to you. Get in your car and make that long journey north into the arms of greatness. Into the arms of legend. Into the gates of heaven. Gates constructed from the steel of our Lord Shankly's single mindedness. Gates maintained by the great managers in our history. Coats of gleaming silver Hammerite applied by great men. The greatest men you could ever hope to follow in the footsteps of.
Sure, over the last few years those gates have fallen into disrepair. They creaked where the oil in the hinges had dried up. They had rusted in the rain - the rain of pain inflicted by the unmentionables. The rain of tears - tears cried by the greatest most humble followers of any football club in the whole universe.
But those gates are being renovated Gareth. Those gates will once again open to allow in the light of the world. You can be a part of that Gareth. You can be a part of this journey. Just imagine lifting the European Cup Gareth. In the red of Liverpool Football Club Gareth. Think of the love and security you will feel when you look deeply into the eyes of God Gareth. You will feel that when you look into the eyes of the King Gareth.
King Kenny.
Well go out and buy your replica shirt with his name on because it's a done deal now. It's as certain as the sun rising in the morning and setting again in the evening. As certain as the moon appearing after the sun has set and then disappearing as the new morning heralds a bright new day for us long suffering fans. The best fans in the world. Fans that no other club can match.
Why is it certain I hear you ask. Sure, in normal circumstances the deal would only be 90% certain. Upon hearing that the mighty Liverpool Football Club - 5 times winners of Europe's premier club competition - were interested in him, the Welsh wizard would certainly want to come. He would come because he knows football. And he knows what Liverpool Football Club mean in world football to literally billions of people. Billions of people all over the world who have suffered the worst injustices known to man over the last 3 years - suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune at the hands of our former owners and previous manager.
I can't speak their names because if I did my blood pressure would rise to alarming levels that my heart and the blood vessels in my brain simply could not stand. Although, if I was to have a massive heart attack or fatal brain aneurysm, my pain and the pain of my family would pale into insignificance when compared with the pain those bastards, whose names I cannot countenance, inflicted on our club - Liverpool Football Club.
So what makes up the extra 10%? I'll tell you what makes up the extra 10%. What makes up the extra mile you need to finish a marathon? I'll tell you what can give you the extra strength to cross the finish line. What gives you the extra inch that determines success from failure? I'll tell you what can deliver you from despair. The extra millimetre that decides life and death when you take a bullet to the chest? I'll tell you what can fill your heart with the power to deflect hot lead travelling at 146 mph.
Kenny Dalglish.
A man who cannot be ignored. A great man. A man with greater compassion than Mother Theresa. A man with more dignity than Ghandi. A man with more integrity than Nelson Mandela.
A man for Liverpool Football Club.
So Dear Gareth
I have only one thing to say to you. Get in your car and make that long journey north into the arms of greatness. Into the arms of legend. Into the gates of heaven. Gates constructed from the steel of our Lord Shankly's single mindedness. Gates maintained by the great managers in our history. Coats of gleaming silver Hammerite applied by great men. The greatest men you could ever hope to follow in the footsteps of.
Sure, over the last few years those gates have fallen into disrepair. They creaked where the oil in the hinges had dried up. They had rusted in the rain - the rain of pain inflicted by the unmentionables. The rain of tears - tears cried by the greatest most humble followers of any football club in the whole universe.
But those gates are being renovated Gareth. Those gates will once again open to allow in the light of the world. You can be a part of that Gareth. You can be a part of this journey. Just imagine lifting the European Cup Gareth. In the red of Liverpool Football Club Gareth. Think of the love and security you will feel when you look deeply into the eyes of God Gareth. You will feel that when you look into the eyes of the King Gareth.
King Kenny.
When King Kenny left.
When King Kenny left I cried and cried and cried. And then I cried some more. I cried tears of sadness. Real salt filled tears of despondency. I was also scared. Scared that I was alone.
Yes, I walked alone. And then I cried some more. I was truly in a storm and I just couldn't hold my head up high - because I was disconsolate. I feared that my love for our great club - Liverpool Football Club - would waver without our messiah, MY messiah, to lead us through the winding roads of the first division and up the unforgiving mountains of Europe to the holy grail of the European Cup Final.
I wept and wept and I sobbed until I could sob no more. Somewhere, a light had gone out. A light so bright that even the most opaque substance known to man could not blot it out. A brightness so blinding that even the gravitational forces of a black hole could not drag it in. It would have taken a million gushing hoses to make an impression on a fire that had burned so brightly.
And yet He was gone. I felt like my heart had been ripped out. It was worse than your whole family having face cancer. It was worse than being injected with AIDS on Christmas day. I would rather have had boiling hot maple syrup poured into my eyes than go through what I went through. What we all went through - together. Of course, then I wouldn't have been able to cry real genuine savoury tears of dejection. But I would have done anyway. Because that's what this great club - Liverpool Football Club - OUR Liverpool Football Club - means to me.
Yes, I walked alone. And then I cried some more. I was truly in a storm and I just couldn't hold my head up high - because I was disconsolate. I feared that my love for our great club - Liverpool Football Club - would waver without our messiah, MY messiah, to lead us through the winding roads of the first division and up the unforgiving mountains of Europe to the holy grail of the European Cup Final.
I wept and wept and I sobbed until I could sob no more. Somewhere, a light had gone out. A light so bright that even the most opaque substance known to man could not blot it out. A brightness so blinding that even the gravitational forces of a black hole could not drag it in. It would have taken a million gushing hoses to make an impression on a fire that had burned so brightly.
And yet He was gone. I felt like my heart had been ripped out. It was worse than your whole family having face cancer. It was worse than being injected with AIDS on Christmas day. I would rather have had boiling hot maple syrup poured into my eyes than go through what I went through. What we all went through - together. Of course, then I wouldn't have been able to cry real genuine savoury tears of dejection. But I would have done anyway. Because that's what this great club - Liverpool Football Club - OUR Liverpool Football Club - means to me.
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