EVER been in a traffic jam for ages and discovered it was because of a fatal crash, miles down the road?
And you’d been thinking, with no awareness whatsoever; “Why does everything happen to me?”
It’s a bit like that now, being a Liverpool fan. The people who are dying just for the sheer bad luck of making contact with an infected person, maybe they’re the unfortunate ones here; not somebody whose sports team hasn’t won a particular trophy for a while.
A little perspective is needed but, as Spinal Tap wisely opined, maybe there is too much f***ing perspective around?
The club could always produce a Balotelli-esque “Why always us?” t-shirt, make a fortune and use the proceeds to sue whoever decides we’re not actually going to be the official champions.
That’s what elite clubs do, apparently; get their own way, come what may. Self-Pity City, we were once disparagingly called. Man, the bottom of the barrel has barely been scraped on that one if the doom-mongers and woe merchants are actually telling the truth for once.
Aye, there’s the rub; are they doing that, or simply plying their vulgar trade in sensationalism, piling on the miserable hysteria and hauling in the clicks. We’ll know soon enough.
You’ve waited for 30 years, another few weeks won’t hurt.
Maybe it can even do you all a service by unwittingly providing immunity from that other modern pestilence ‘da bantz’.
What the supporters of other clubs think or say matters not a jot, and their songs (no doubt being Bacharached as I type) are all just water off a duck’s back. Piping hot certainly but still only water, nonetheless.
I know it’s only the smallest fragment from an obviously bigger picture, but all the speculation did give me sweet release from an abnormal pessimism that always seemed doggedly eternal until now.
Was it only a week ago that City were shooting themselves in their tiki-taka toes at Old Trafford, while I was telling other Reds to quit bragging before citing other lamentable collapses of our time?
Well, that tune soon altered with a shuddering time change. Now I'm absolutely convinced that Liverpool are/were going to win the league, that mindset shifting right at the coincidental moment when the first hint of avoided season was tossed out there.
Of course, it’s been displaced by a whole new level of personal gloom by the current crisis.
Why is being champions so darn important, anyway? Because it’s tangible proof that you have been the best team.
Right, because someone that only dropped five points by mid-March needs more evidence of their superiority, don’t they?
An entry in a record book is not going to change that, merely augment it, but a baying bantering world may not be quite so easy to dampen down.
You can hear the songs in the ether. If you’re already squirming at the mere thought of them, maybe you lack what it takes to be a supporter of this club. These are the same flotsam who regularly call you a workshy thief, a murderer even, who sing about a player called Demba Ba they couldn’t pick out of a lineout that scored some goal or other six whole years ago.
They’re the ones who are now going to tell you Liverpool aren’t the champions. If you give such cretinous scallywags credence, you deserve every last sleepless night that afflicts you.
They’re the same idiots who were scoffing about us winning ‘just the one’ trophy a few nights ago. Your choice of ‘friends’ is not impeccable, to put it mildly. That’s okay for you to say, Steve, you’re old enough and lucky enough to have lived in a b/w world where the Reds made the title their personal property.
And you think that means I don’t want it now? Have it your way.
Klopp’s reaction to the Atletico defeat was not the best, somewhat childish in fact, but his comments on the season suspension were exemplary when others’ obfuscating self-interest was merely riddled with embarrassment.
Undercover of humour, other supporters shame themselves with a barely containable glee over more chaos and misery — all because a team they don’t like might win some bauble once in 30 years. Their long dark night of the soul will hit them soon enough and need not concern us right now.
It’s not like we haven’t done worse — a lot worse. We didn’t have to explain that a banner like “Don’t bomb Iraq —nuke Manchester” wasn’t meant to be taken literally, though the Munich stuff might be a lot harder to rationalise away. So many will be using the words ‘chickens’, ‘home’ and ‘roost’ right now.
Let them. Rise above it all, like I’m preposterously pretending to do right now. Whatever happens for the rest of this most bizarre of seasons, if it even restarts, it’s been a blast and our team has made us immeasurably proud. Nothing that happens now alters that.
So this will be the last column of mine for a while. It might even be the last one ever. Thanks for reading it all these years.
It’s been a lot of fun. Stay safe.