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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.