Liverpool here we come. We’re just so lucky.
There’s something basically wrong with Saturday night football. It’s a pain to get there and it’s worse to get back from. Besides that, if all you want to do on a Saturday night is watch TV there’s no hope.
After the trip to Bruges we’ll be in another foreign land, surrounded by foreigners. These will be Scandinavians, Irish and Welsh but they’ll still be talking some strange, impenetrable language. Sorry, that’s the Scousers. Both of them will be jabbering away about their uncle who went to school with Cilla Black, their neighbour whose sister went out with George Harrison and their mate whose dad had a trial for Everton and Alan Ball never got a kick. And with the obvious lines out of the way we might as well talk about football.
Annoyingly Liverpool are good, as in top of the table and, God forbid, they might even win the league good. Any idea that they might have struggled a bit when the World’s Most Sainted Manager Ever ascended to heaven has gone out of the window and they’re top of the league. So they’re just the team for us to be playing at the moment.
They’ve got a collection of some of the most annoying footballers to ever be gathered together in one place, which is some going given the competition in this league. Their celebrity supporters are even more annoying and there’s bound to be a few banners.
If you’ve never been there before, you might be expecting a cauldron of noise, passion and razor-sharp wit. If you’re lucky you’ll get a half-arsed rendition of that dirge about walking down the road on your own because everybody else has got more sense than going out when it’s pissing down and you’ll hear a dozen ear-bleeding shouts for a penalty. And that’s before we remember how to play again. As ever, please none of that shite about murderers, victims and signing on. Win, lose or draw we’re better than that.
