Well, I’m back.
In many ways the Prague game as the best and worst game I’ve ever witnessed in the flesh. As usual, I caught the morning train to Liverpool, and to be honest aside from the beauty of the Yorkshire countryside especially after Sheffield I’m a bit tired of the views; especially around Notts.
But anyway that wasn’t why I came; and there weren’t many many Mancs this time.I reached Lime Street about a half hour late and I was worried whether I’d be able to see Krump in time (I’d told him I’d be in the Harry at around 4pm or so).
I alight and realise I’m starving and decide to check Wetherspoons to see if they’ve got any lunch deals going, though to be honest I didn’t really feel like regular pub food. To my delight they were having a deal on curry lunch and I wolfed it down in a few minutes and had a Strongbow.
Though it took me ages to eat the rice since for the life of me I cannot fathom the ability to eat rice with a fork; a spoon would be much easier but the place is pretty packed and I decide that getting a waiters attention would be more trouble than it was worth.
Though to be honest I didn’t feel like talking to anyone; I was tired, after dragging my arse to the fucking Emirates the night before to make sure the missus got in ok; who was accompanying her kid brother (whom I had to remind that he had a CUP FINAL this Sunday)
His reply was that he was more interested in the title and the Champions League; and I suppose he had a point.
I was angry.
That they had better quality players; that they had a bigger stadium.
I’d never been to any stadium save Anfield and Wembley ( when I went on the tour with John); and after several Anfield trips, I didn’t realise how big Emirates was. I saw the beautiful neon and corporate boxes, and I could almost smell the money.
I hated the fact that I was staring at the reasons they were becoming a successful club and it ate at me.
We should have the better players, we should have the massive stadium.
Anyway, I’m having the curry (which unfortunately wasn’t very good) and I realise there’s an old lady trying to get past me, I immediately move my chair to give her room and as she passes me puts her hand on my shoulder and says ‘thank ye dear’ and sits down at the next table; she sits down and is soon accompanied by her elderly husband with several pints.
Im impressed that they can drin this much at their age, to be honest!
Both are locals and start chatting with each other about the game and the Navy (their son) and things; after a while they notice my scarf and ask me if I were going to the game. I of course replied that I was. They were surprised that I’d come up from Norwich which they said was awfully far (I then had to explain the long story as to how I was there). They noticed my lunch and the lady asked if it was any good, I told her it wasn’t bad, but a little dry. She asked if I knew which bus to take to Anfield and I said I did, but thanks so much.
I’d texted Krump to say I’d be late but I had so many fearful thoughts of him being furious with me and giving my ticket that I decided to get to Anfield immediately, so I finished my lunch and said my goodbyes. In hindsight I should have stayed a bit longer and chatted with them, but well.
Then I realised while walking to the bus stand that I felt much better.
Fuck Arsenal and their shiny stadium.
I had Anfield.
And I had Liverpool.
I have this habit of taking a Liverpool book in the train every time I’m going for a game, and I was re-reading Brian Reade’s ’43 years with the same bird’ which is excellent, and I’d remembered one line from Shanks who was replying to a letter from Reade expressing his indignation that Shanks had been ignored from the Queens Honours list as usual.
He replied and told him that it was very kind of him but that the people who hand out honours weren’t really his people anyway, his people went to Anfield.
‘MY PEOPLE GO TO ANFIELD’.
And for a short while more at least, I was one of Shank’s people.
And that cheered me up.
I check my phone to see if Krump replied, but decide not to call him again as he’d think I was mental (I’d sent him 2 PM’s the night before; thanks for not getting sarky with me Krump)..
I’m a worrier I guess.
There wasn’t a reply, so I decided to check in and then go to the Harry..I checked in the hostel, which was OK..though not as clean as the earlier hostel..and this one was full of Sparta supporters, although they seemed friendly enough.
I reach the Harry, hoping that somehow Sean and Bob were there (but they weren’t)..Feeling crestfallen I get a pint and finish it..(did you get my text, Sean?)…thank you again for letting me use your ticket, mate…I’m really sorry you coudnt get off work for this one.
I decide to wait a bit and see if Krump recognized me; I’m usually the only weird brown lad in the Harry so I’m pretty easy to spot..then I spot a familiar face..it was Portly!...and I stop by and say hi…and he introduces me to Vladders!
Finally I meet Vladders.
I’d forgotten that they’d be coming, and I was delighted to see them…both men are very much the same as what you see in here, very funny, and very dignified..Vladders introduces me to 2 young men, whom I assume are his sons, though one seems overly tall and doesn’t resemble him, the other does though.
I decide to risk annoying Krump and give him a quick call, who says he’s on his way..relieved I continue drinking..after a bit I realise that he might have called and check..4 MISSED CALLS…
FUCK FUCK FUCK…
I try to call him then realise that a very well-dressed and distinguished gentleman was trying to get my attention; he looked like a much better version of Piers Morgan.
Well actually he looked like the actor who played Judge Roland Freisler in ‘Conspiracy’ but I’d forgotten his name. I was tempted to ask if it were him though…I’d remembered Krump’s request to play things cool so I said hi, took the ticket and passed the cash and said ‘thanks again mate’ and decided to leave..I knew if I’d stayed I’d talk about the forum and that might not have endeared me to Krump and his business associate..
Unfortunately when I told Vladders that Krump was there, both he and Portly went over for a chat…I had this urge to shout NO VLADDERS BE COOL BE COOL HE’S WITH PEOPLE….DONT TALK ABOUT SIXCRAZYMINUTES DON’T TALK ABOUT SIXCRAZYMINUTES.
Then I realized that I’d just steered the ship into the iceberg and thought ah well, fuck it.
I’m proud of this place, and the friends I’ve made because of it, and I don’t care if that makes me some internet forum saddo.
So we chat for a while until its time to go, and I walk to the ground with Vladders until we separate at the Kop End..his ticket was in the Main Stand.
I was having a tough time talking, my mind was a mess.
This was my last time walking up the Back Rockfield Road to the stadium.
Maybe.
I put that aside and make my way in.
To be honest, the game wasn’t that good…but the fans were magnificent, well up for it…and we gave the Prague suuporters a reminder of why we were the best fucking fans in the world.
Shove that up your Arsenal.
To their credit, the Prague fans were excellent; loud and unwavering and stayed to support their team even after the whistle..I was part of the many thousands in the Kop to applaud the away fans; though there one or two showing obscene gestures.
I didn’t show any obscene gestures at their fans, though I did show some at Repka after he had a go at us, and I did shout out WANKER WANKER WANKER WANKER together with the rest of the Kop.
He was a wanker though.
Decent performances fromn the players, but very very little cutting edge and the game was very difficult. If Sparta were a bit better we’d be going out. Thankfully Kuyt scored and the relief and joy was so palpable. I screamed YES YES YES so loudly that the guy in front turned, looked and gave me a big smile.
I loved the game.
We may never have a humoungous stadium, but no one NO ONE will ever have fans like us. Which I told to the ‘die hard Gooner’s face last night, and even he conceded that we were ‘crazy’.
The missus and her friend had both been at the Napoli game and both said they thought Anfield was much more fun, biased perhaps, but I don’t care. It is to me anyway.
Anfield was My Liverpool Home.
Game ended and I went back to the Harry on the chance Sean or some others were there.
I think I’ve become known there though; the Martin Skrtel lookalike who works there said ‘hey, it’s Mr Bean back’ and he says ‘you were well handsome tonight,mate’.. he was probably either taking the piss or was well pissed, so I didn’t care…I laughed and thanked him and got myself a pint.
I didn’t feel like staying though since no one was around, and there was someone dancing to a hiphop number on the bar table.
Nope, not for me tonight.
I went for some chips, and came back to Anfield and sat down on the bench at the bus stop directly facing the Paisley Gates (well, the Store actually) and ate my chips whilst the cold wind blew and I heard the songs from the street vendors selling scarves and shirts.
And then I realised it.
This might have been my last definite Anfield game, but I’d found it.
IT.
IT.
I’d found heaven.
Or at least my version.
Fuck Rome or Venice or the Empire State Building.
I wanted to be sitting on that bench with chips on my hand (or a good chicken curry if possible) outside Anfield on that bench at the age of 85 with a cold wind blowing and then get a heart attack and die in seconds. I hope some youngsters help my wife (who’s with me of course) bring my body in off the street and let me lie next to Shankly for a while until the ambulances come.
He made the people happy, and he also made me happy.
Before I went I’d tell my wife I’d a good life, and that there’s no better place I’d rather be than at Anfield with her. I hope she wouldn’t be too sad.
But to be honest I was just so happy that I’d found ‘IT’.
Though I hope no one sits next to me and asks for spare change.
I had 10p on me, plus a few notes so I gave him just the 10p.
I’m feeling exhausted, and maybe it’s a good thing no ones in the Harry.
I head back to my hostel, stopping every few seconds to take another look at Anfield and to memorize the look..every bit as possible..I’m hoping to burn these images in my mind for the rest of my life, and when I go home to be able to close my eyes and draw on the images whenevr I wanted.
Memories are never the same as the real thing of course; but they grow powerful over time. I hope it’s the same for me.
I wake up early the next day. Too early..and walk around the stadium again.
It’s a bit of a narcotic, but I cant help it.
I walk around to the Shankly Gates, and read the names again.
Why so many?
I don’t know, but they’re one with the club now, the way we all will be someday…and I suppose that’s small consolation for their families…but it means something to me..the true Spirit of Shankly, I guess. I hope to get a game in April, Im all tapped out now...but I'm not going to complain anymore.
I've found IT.
I memorise everthing and make my way back, unfortunately I stop by the Liverpool store and waste money on more things..i have to stop doing that, but I had to…I bought a little kit for my 5 years old nephew.
His Manc father wont let him be a Red, but fuck him.
You never know.
In many ways the Prague game as the best and worst game I’ve ever witnessed in the flesh. As usual, I caught the morning train to Liverpool, and to be honest aside from the beauty of the Yorkshire countryside especially after Sheffield I’m a bit tired of the views; especially around Notts.
But anyway that wasn’t why I came; and there weren’t many many Mancs this time.I reached Lime Street about a half hour late and I was worried whether I’d be able to see Krump in time (I’d told him I’d be in the Harry at around 4pm or so).
I alight and realise I’m starving and decide to check Wetherspoons to see if they’ve got any lunch deals going, though to be honest I didn’t really feel like regular pub food. To my delight they were having a deal on curry lunch and I wolfed it down in a few minutes and had a Strongbow.
Though it took me ages to eat the rice since for the life of me I cannot fathom the ability to eat rice with a fork; a spoon would be much easier but the place is pretty packed and I decide that getting a waiters attention would be more trouble than it was worth.
Though to be honest I didn’t feel like talking to anyone; I was tired, after dragging my arse to the fucking Emirates the night before to make sure the missus got in ok; who was accompanying her kid brother (whom I had to remind that he had a CUP FINAL this Sunday)
His reply was that he was more interested in the title and the Champions League; and I suppose he had a point.
I was angry.
That they had better quality players; that they had a bigger stadium.
I’d never been to any stadium save Anfield and Wembley ( when I went on the tour with John); and after several Anfield trips, I didn’t realise how big Emirates was. I saw the beautiful neon and corporate boxes, and I could almost smell the money.
I hated the fact that I was staring at the reasons they were becoming a successful club and it ate at me.
We should have the better players, we should have the massive stadium.
Anyway, I’m having the curry (which unfortunately wasn’t very good) and I realise there’s an old lady trying to get past me, I immediately move my chair to give her room and as she passes me puts her hand on my shoulder and says ‘thank ye dear’ and sits down at the next table; she sits down and is soon accompanied by her elderly husband with several pints.
Im impressed that they can drin this much at their age, to be honest!
Both are locals and start chatting with each other about the game and the Navy (their son) and things; after a while they notice my scarf and ask me if I were going to the game. I of course replied that I was. They were surprised that I’d come up from Norwich which they said was awfully far (I then had to explain the long story as to how I was there). They noticed my lunch and the lady asked if it was any good, I told her it wasn’t bad, but a little dry. She asked if I knew which bus to take to Anfield and I said I did, but thanks so much.
I’d texted Krump to say I’d be late but I had so many fearful thoughts of him being furious with me and giving my ticket that I decided to get to Anfield immediately, so I finished my lunch and said my goodbyes. In hindsight I should have stayed a bit longer and chatted with them, but well.
Then I realised while walking to the bus stand that I felt much better.
Fuck Arsenal and their shiny stadium.
I had Anfield.
And I had Liverpool.
I have this habit of taking a Liverpool book in the train every time I’m going for a game, and I was re-reading Brian Reade’s ’43 years with the same bird’ which is excellent, and I’d remembered one line from Shanks who was replying to a letter from Reade expressing his indignation that Shanks had been ignored from the Queens Honours list as usual.
He replied and told him that it was very kind of him but that the people who hand out honours weren’t really his people anyway, his people went to Anfield.
‘MY PEOPLE GO TO ANFIELD’.
And for a short while more at least, I was one of Shank’s people.
And that cheered me up.
I check my phone to see if Krump replied, but decide not to call him again as he’d think I was mental (I’d sent him 2 PM’s the night before; thanks for not getting sarky with me Krump)..
I’m a worrier I guess.
There wasn’t a reply, so I decided to check in and then go to the Harry..I checked in the hostel, which was OK..though not as clean as the earlier hostel..and this one was full of Sparta supporters, although they seemed friendly enough.
I reach the Harry, hoping that somehow Sean and Bob were there (but they weren’t)..Feeling crestfallen I get a pint and finish it..(did you get my text, Sean?)…thank you again for letting me use your ticket, mate…I’m really sorry you coudnt get off work for this one.
I decide to wait a bit and see if Krump recognized me; I’m usually the only weird brown lad in the Harry so I’m pretty easy to spot..then I spot a familiar face..it was Portly!...and I stop by and say hi…and he introduces me to Vladders!
Finally I meet Vladders.
I’d forgotten that they’d be coming, and I was delighted to see them…both men are very much the same as what you see in here, very funny, and very dignified..Vladders introduces me to 2 young men, whom I assume are his sons, though one seems overly tall and doesn’t resemble him, the other does though.
I decide to risk annoying Krump and give him a quick call, who says he’s on his way..relieved I continue drinking..after a bit I realise that he might have called and check..4 MISSED CALLS…
FUCK FUCK FUCK…
I try to call him then realise that a very well-dressed and distinguished gentleman was trying to get my attention; he looked like a much better version of Piers Morgan.
Well actually he looked like the actor who played Judge Roland Freisler in ‘Conspiracy’ but I’d forgotten his name. I was tempted to ask if it were him though…I’d remembered Krump’s request to play things cool so I said hi, took the ticket and passed the cash and said ‘thanks again mate’ and decided to leave..I knew if I’d stayed I’d talk about the forum and that might not have endeared me to Krump and his business associate..
Unfortunately when I told Vladders that Krump was there, both he and Portly went over for a chat…I had this urge to shout NO VLADDERS BE COOL BE COOL HE’S WITH PEOPLE….DONT TALK ABOUT SIXCRAZYMINUTES DON’T TALK ABOUT SIXCRAZYMINUTES.
Then I realized that I’d just steered the ship into the iceberg and thought ah well, fuck it.
I’m proud of this place, and the friends I’ve made because of it, and I don’t care if that makes me some internet forum saddo.
So we chat for a while until its time to go, and I walk to the ground with Vladders until we separate at the Kop End..his ticket was in the Main Stand.
I was having a tough time talking, my mind was a mess.
This was my last time walking up the Back Rockfield Road to the stadium.
Maybe.
I put that aside and make my way in.
To be honest, the game wasn’t that good…but the fans were magnificent, well up for it…and we gave the Prague suuporters a reminder of why we were the best fucking fans in the world.
Shove that up your Arsenal.
To their credit, the Prague fans were excellent; loud and unwavering and stayed to support their team even after the whistle..I was part of the many thousands in the Kop to applaud the away fans; though there one or two showing obscene gestures.
I didn’t show any obscene gestures at their fans, though I did show some at Repka after he had a go at us, and I did shout out WANKER WANKER WANKER WANKER together with the rest of the Kop.
He was a wanker though.
Decent performances fromn the players, but very very little cutting edge and the game was very difficult. If Sparta were a bit better we’d be going out. Thankfully Kuyt scored and the relief and joy was so palpable. I screamed YES YES YES so loudly that the guy in front turned, looked and gave me a big smile.
I loved the game.
We may never have a humoungous stadium, but no one NO ONE will ever have fans like us. Which I told to the ‘die hard Gooner’s face last night, and even he conceded that we were ‘crazy’.
The missus and her friend had both been at the Napoli game and both said they thought Anfield was much more fun, biased perhaps, but I don’t care. It is to me anyway.
Anfield was My Liverpool Home.
Game ended and I went back to the Harry on the chance Sean or some others were there.
I think I’ve become known there though; the Martin Skrtel lookalike who works there said ‘hey, it’s Mr Bean back’ and he says ‘you were well handsome tonight,mate’.. he was probably either taking the piss or was well pissed, so I didn’t care…I laughed and thanked him and got myself a pint.
I didn’t feel like staying though since no one was around, and there was someone dancing to a hiphop number on the bar table.
Nope, not for me tonight.
I went for some chips, and came back to Anfield and sat down on the bench at the bus stop directly facing the Paisley Gates (well, the Store actually) and ate my chips whilst the cold wind blew and I heard the songs from the street vendors selling scarves and shirts.
And then I realised it.
This might have been my last definite Anfield game, but I’d found it.
IT.
IT.
I’d found heaven.
Or at least my version.
Fuck Rome or Venice or the Empire State Building.
I wanted to be sitting on that bench with chips on my hand (or a good chicken curry if possible) outside Anfield on that bench at the age of 85 with a cold wind blowing and then get a heart attack and die in seconds. I hope some youngsters help my wife (who’s with me of course) bring my body in off the street and let me lie next to Shankly for a while until the ambulances come.
He made the people happy, and he also made me happy.
Before I went I’d tell my wife I’d a good life, and that there’s no better place I’d rather be than at Anfield with her. I hope she wouldn’t be too sad.
But to be honest I was just so happy that I’d found ‘IT’.
Though I hope no one sits next to me and asks for spare change.
I had 10p on me, plus a few notes so I gave him just the 10p.
I’m feeling exhausted, and maybe it’s a good thing no ones in the Harry.
I head back to my hostel, stopping every few seconds to take another look at Anfield and to memorize the look..every bit as possible..I’m hoping to burn these images in my mind for the rest of my life, and when I go home to be able to close my eyes and draw on the images whenevr I wanted.
Memories are never the same as the real thing of course; but they grow powerful over time. I hope it’s the same for me.
I wake up early the next day. Too early..and walk around the stadium again.
It’s a bit of a narcotic, but I cant help it.
I walk around to the Shankly Gates, and read the names again.
Why so many?
I don’t know, but they’re one with the club now, the way we all will be someday…and I suppose that’s small consolation for their families…but it means something to me..the true Spirit of Shankly, I guess. I hope to get a game in April, Im all tapped out now...but I'm not going to complain anymore.
I've found IT.
I memorise everthing and make my way back, unfortunately I stop by the Liverpool store and waste money on more things..i have to stop doing that, but I had to…I bought a little kit for my 5 years old nephew.
His Manc father wont let him be a Red, but fuck him.
You never know.
