I knew I couldn’t. This is why.

Written in 2024 for TAW.

I’M glad we didn’t play on Saturday January 13 this year.

We all have dates we can’t face. Some of us have certain fixtures. Paul, my brother-in-law, can no longer go to the Anfield derby and I don’t think I could stand on a terrace with that date on my watch. This is for the same reason.

On Friday January 5, 2018, he went to his last ever Anfield derby with my younger sister, Karen. It was the Virgil van Dijk derby. That one. They’d just got back from a post-Christmas break in Lanzarote and had timed their return to take in the third round of the FA Cup if it happened to be at Anfield. They got lucky with the draw.

Eight days later, a Saturday morning, he went into work to get some admin done. My sister was snoring happily as he left. She was not when he returned. She had died in her sleep. An undiagnosed heart condition. She was just 48. This Saturday was the sixth anniversary of her death and it’s not getting any easier.

For Paul and I then, January 13 is the worst day of the year. I dread it and this year it fell on a Saturday again.

Throughout the day I started thinking back to what I was doing at that time. At 9.30am, when we think she died, I was at a Taekwondo class. At 11am when he found her, I was on my way to meet my mate, Tony. By 5pm I was sobbing in the passenger seat of my mate Dev’s car on the way back home to Liverpool, trying to work out what the hell had happened and what I was supposed to do now.

I wasn’t supposed to go to the Manchester City game, the 4-3, the next day. I didn’t have a ticket, but Paul gave me his and I thought seeing my mates would help. Of course it did. I’m lucky and blessed in that respect.

It may seem strange to do that. To go to a football match so soon after the trauma of the day before and it’s hard to explain why I did. You could say I went because it was a top of the table clash, but I would have been there had it been a pre-season friendly.

Why? Because I needed a touchstone. I needed familiarity, normality and the sense of belonging to something when I was at my most lost. Karen and I were always close, but we connected strongly on what the club and city meant to us.

In any case, I can barely remember anything about the game anyway. My plan was to go in for You’ll Never Walk Alone and then slip away for a long walk back to my Mum’s. Another mate, Andy, was with me so I sat with him instead. I’ve never seen the goals since, in the same way that Paul has never seen Virgil’s derby winner since the week before.

You’ll Never Walk Alone I do remember. I howled like a banshee, causing the people around me in the Main Stand to turn around and wonder what was going on. Andy, arm around me, told them I was fine while gesturing for them to face the pitch again. I remember that more than anything about the game.

That’s probably because I’ve seen it from the spectator side before. I remember a bog-standard home game against Wigan where a group in the Kemlyn took it in turns to hug a woman during You’ll Never Walk Alone. I didn’t know why but I could guess.

On another occasion in the 90s, I stood next to an old man on The Kop who silently let tears roll down his cheeks during the same song. “I’m alright, lad,” he mumbled in that strangely bass, bronchial gruff tone our grandfathers used to have, when I put my hand on his shoulder.

Two days after the funeral I was back at Anfield. The club had printed an obituary for her in the programme. Around this time they were subject to a lot of criticism for a lack of signings in the recently closed transfer window, but I couldn’t join in with the online barbs. They’d just published something that made my mum smile for the first time in weeks. There wasn’t many smiles around at that time.

This is just one story. There are countless others like it. I’ve a friend whose January 13 is January 6.

As I said, I’ve seen other similar stories around the ground and it tells me that, though the game is criticised daily and we frown at our own club even when it’s doing well, it’s more than just a place where lads kick around a bag of wind.

The stature of your club doesn’t matter. If you feel a connection to it, have generations before you committed to it, or just feel that its ethos fits in with your own, then it becomes ingrained in your marrow.

Over-sentimental? Possibly, yes. I can say why people would say that, but that’s just an accusation from people who haven’t walked in the same shoes or experienced the same permutations of life. When I got that news the day before, I wanted to come home to see my family and then come to a different kind of home.

It’s why I’ve muttered “that’s it, I’m not going anymore,” on countless occasions, but knew full well that I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t scrape out the feeling that this is my club, in my city, and the nine letters strike something deep within me. Within us.

At midnight on Saturday January 13, 2018, I sat on my mum’s couch and watched the date change from the 13th to the 14th. I felt relief. The worst day of my life was now over and, though it wouldn’t be any easier now, I’d never have to go through that day again.

Six years but it feels like a fortnight. That will get easier. Not yet, but it will do and I’ll always hate that date.

Miss you, sis, and you were right. Virgil looks the business.

Karl

The replies to this were predictably depressing. One told me TAW make a profit of £700m and another referred to his love of Bezos compared to ‘the likes of you.’ Both Liverpool fans.

I’ll keep writing but my audience is getting smaller.

Anyway …

BILLIONAIRE owners sell some of someone else’s heart to another set of billionaires so that more billionaires can make more money from someone else’s heart.

The news of a new consortium now holding a stake in Liverpool Football Club rather washed over me. The process of people who are either largely or totally ignorant of why we love the game in the first place taking more and more of it has become so normalised that any argument to the contrary seems almost futile.

It’s like complaining about a blocked toilet on the Titanic. What’s the point now?

It was going this way long before Jeff Bezos and his mates saw an investment opportunity in an enclave in L4. FSG, liberal though they may be, were always going to share their cake at some point, and it seems like they’re not too fussy as to who has the other spoon.

Largely benign owners maybe, but FSG have previously supported huge ticket-price hikes and the promotion of a European Super League in the guise of ‘being competitive’.

They’re keen to ‘monetise the asset’ to the nth degree, and seemed surprised and unprepared at the pushback it faces. It seems to me that the only real interest they have in the fans has been by using images of us singing and swaying to emphasise the brand.

Even when Spirit Of Shankly and other bodies have voiced opposition to this and other unpleasant ventures, it hasn’t stopped them trying to find new ways to squeeze us a little more. And that will continue. It’s what venture capitalists do, and they’ve paid to have the box seat.

“Your revolution is over, Mr Lebowski. The bums lost.”

The flavour of owner no longer matters. People will justify it all the same. There’s a man in the consortium criticised heavily for his excessive labour practices to the extent people fell ill, and for marginalising smaller businesses via predatory market pricing.

The same man openly supports the most horrific of all U.S. presidents whose views go against everything this club stands for but, hey, he hasn’t executed anyone, right? We win, yeah?

Is that a false equivalence? I’m not sure. I’ve already been told: “Yeah, but you buy Amazon products.” Yes, I do, but for reasons of expediency rather than brand loyalty, but it does make me part of the problem. It’s difficult not to be, as this is the world now.

It’s just that I’d rather it didn’t enter into something as poetic and important as my football club. At least give me that. Give me time away from the perpetual pillaging of something I love and live by.

The fight between the soul and the bottom line. Liverpool to me is a club representing my home city and doing things differently, singing through adversity, standing up for the few, going to places any other homogeneous support won’t touch, and our unique tradition.

It’s applauding the opposing goalkeeper when he approaches The Kop (we used to do that), the Sing Fong, yes – the Sing Fong! – the smell of the ground, the laconic voice of George Sephton, the badge, the badge, the badge. Things that can’t be reached by market forces.

But the bottom line will always win out. The people of no interest or understanding of the above and the very core that it presents in us would be Bill Shankly’s boss today. Jurgen Klopp’s line manager. People who have never been to a football match in jeans and they can misuse their privilege any way they want.

And it’s made worse by their genuine ignorance of this viewpoint. It’s doubtful they’d recognise the argument.

Last month, the President of the USA intervened in a football decision, and the game’s supreme government body was fine with it. Once that blew over, they announced plans to sell off the most prestigious tournament in world football to the highest bidder, because they can and they’ve always believed they can due to the power and influence investment brings.

It’s become a right and, again, they wouldn’t understand a counter-argument.

This is not to say that Bezos is about to nudge John Henry to one side and treat Liverpool Football Club employees to the draconian work conditions for which he’s been criticised before. He won’t be a board member. Yet.

But why would you spend that amount of money if you didn’t want some say in how things could be? It’s another example of the decision-makers being those who understand the game the least, who can trample over what’s important to us. People who can’t begin to have the level of buy-in we do.

I expect these views will be shouted down by a chorus of ‘yeah, but money’, but it’s just another step towards what is and what should never be. Of just being another club run the same way as everyone else, with all nuance removed. Anything unique confined to the past when we were nice to opposition goalkeepers.

I don’t know if I can sing for that.

Actually, I do. Because I’m weak and I’ll always have my version of Liverpool to support, even though it directly contradicts the evidence of my own eyes. They can’t touch that.

I’ll still support mine. Sometimes I wish I wouldn’t.

Karl

My remit was to sell space to Green companies by traipsing up and down motorways where often as not I’d be told to sod off by various CEOs and Marketing Managers. I rarely leapt from the sheets on Monday mornings and sprinted to the Tube, but it paid the rent.

One day I was invited to a 20th anniversary bash of some environmental tech firm or other in the Midlands. I won’t name them here as a year later I was pretty much told to stop contacting them again after they pissed me around for months. I went right off them so they’re not getting a plug here.

I wanted them to buy space at our (now defunct) show and they’d steadfastly refused to get involved, so I was initially cheered to be considered one of their inner circle. Maybe they were considering a huge stand after all, alright not for this financial year but for 2013. It was worth the trip. This relationship management game seizes on such opportunities so I turned my trusty company car onto the M1 and headed up there. I suspected that I’d only been invited to fill up the room, but there’d probably be some vol-au-vents and Cava I could get outside.

I don’t think I knew who the guest of honour was at this point. I remember wondering if I should go or not and had I known who it was to be in advance I would have broken the speed limit several times to get there.

The guest of honour, weirdly, was Brian Blessed.

Yes, the Brian Blessed.

I failed to see a correlation between the event and the much-loved actor, but what a pleasure it would be to be in bellowing ear shot of him.

Brian Blessed has been a hero of mine since 1976. I was only seven-years old then but I was already fascinated with Ancient Rome and particularly with the first Emperor, Augustus.

Back then I was at Monksdown Primary School in Norris Green, Liverpool and in Mr Gibson’s class. His room was in what looked like a cricket pavilion behind the prefabs so we were cut off from the main school.

One day a history book laid open on the big desk I shared with other kids. I’m still in touch with two of them half a century later. Even though we weren’t covering the Romans, a drawing of Augustus looked up at me.

He looked great. A flowing white toga and a gold laurel leaf on his head. He radiated power. I was all in.

And then came I Claudius.

For reasons passing my understanding, my parents allowed me to watch it even though there were naked woman in the first Augustus scene, tons of murders, sex and iffy suicides. It was a bold decision by them but it had no negative impact on me whatsoever. They knew I loved Roman stuff so they let it stand. I’m still grateful today.

Augustus was now on telly in my front room. And he was played by a much quieter Brian Blessed

.(‘You’re too young to watch this, Karl’)

This wasn’t the barking full-on Blessed. His Augustus was measured, calm and relaxed. Almost nice, avuncular even. Everyone’s Grandad.

He was softly spoken. Strange to think that, I know.

During the filming, Brian confided to his Director Herbert Wise that he wasn’t playing him like the oligarch he was. Augustus was a nephew of Julius Caesar and still a boy of sorts, though he in his early 30s when he defeated Mark Antony at the Battle of Actium and became the first and best Emperor of Rome.

‘I don’t feel that he has the power of an Emperor here,’ Brian complained. Wise told him that he didn’t need to. The bigwigs around him would do that for him. He was right. By the time he banishes his daughter Julia and executes every Senator with whom she had the pleasure, you know full well who’s in charge.

So, I walked into the ceremony and thought ‘Brian Blessed, BRIAN BLESSED is here. I wonder where he is.’

I heard him before I saw him. Obviously.

And there he was. Tall, if a little hunched as the years were catching up with him. He filled his jacket splendidly.

He got up and made his speech, loudly, and then introduced the local Mayor. I nodded and applauded on cue, but my thoughts were elsewhere. My sole ambition was to somehow shake his hand and thank him for being Augustus.

‘Karl?’

My host. A year later she would write me a snotty email, snottily telling me to sod off.

‘There’s going to be some speeches about technical stuff now and I think I can spare you that. There’s a little cafe area around the back for the non-tech guests if you’d like make yourself comfortable there. Go and have a coffee. I’ll bring you back in later.’

It was welcomed. This tech stuff was a little dry. I went through a hastily constructed curtained off area and was handed the cup that cheers. There was no one else there apart from a man in the corner who was looking forlornly out of the window.

No one else there apart from …

In for a penny…

‘Hello Brian.’

He got up and greeted me like an old friend. His handshake was … well, guess. He showed me to a chair and asked who I was.

We spoke of this and that for a while and then I got down to business.

‘I’m a huge I Claudius fan, Brian.’

His face lit up. I was surprised at that reaction.

‘Ah, splendid. I hardly ever get to talk about Claudius. It’s mostly Flash Gordon, y’know. GORDON’S ALIVE!’ He laughed with the power of ten people.

He waxed lyrical for a full fifteen minutes, about the series, about Herbert Wise, the actors, his indecision about his own performance and the curse of I Claudius. You see, the 1937 Charles Laughton production was beset with disasters including a near death car crash involving co-lead Merle Oberon and spiralling costs. Suspecting that the spirit of Augustus wasn’t happy about having his life pored over and being a superstitious lot, the production team cut their losses and abandoned the project entirely.

‘At least there wasn’t any of that in 1976, Bri',’ I chirruped. He looked solemn.

‘At the wrap party, one of our crew choked on a chicken bone on set and died.’

‘Ah.’

A bit embarrassing but as I was openly calling him ‘Bri,’ I styled it out.

A gear change here. Let’s talk about Quinctilius Varus. Just go with it. It’ll be easier in the long run.

Varus was a Roman general charged with conquering the Germany barbarians as Augustus’s legions tried to civilise (basically, take over) their country. In September 9AD, he was tricked by a Germanic prince called Arminius into taking three Legions into the Teutoburg Forest to put down a small uprising by local tribes.

The revolt was a fake. They were met with thousands of Germans in a bad mood.

The forest was dense and the Legions couldn’t fight to the best of their usual superior ability. In three days 20,000 Romans were slaughtered outright.

Each legion carried an Eagle standard which represented the living spirit and supreme honour of the unit. To lose them was a huge dishonour. All three fell into enemy hands.

Varus fell on his sword in disgrace.

It’s said that Augustus never recovered from the disaster and was appalled that his Eagles had gone. He would often wonder around his palace roaring ‘Quinctilius Varus! Where are my Eagles?’ in the dead of night. He wore mourning clothes for months, left his hair and beard long, and banged his head against doors in despair. He didn’t take it well. Hamlet with a headache.

It’s the moment in the series where Brian Blessed went from soft spoken Caesar to …well, Brian Blessed.

Here you go:

I was keen to discuss that and the change in Augustus. He was happy to engage.

Then I had an idea. A beauty.

My voicemail was a personalised recording made by George Sephton, the former LFC stadium announcer, which he kindly made at the launch of the Ray of Hope Appeal in 2008.

‘Not answering this phone is Number Five: Karl. Coppack’

I was elated with it and had over thirty calls the following day from mates hoping to get the voicemail so they could hear it. It was precious to me but I reckoned that George wouldn’t mind if I replaced it with Brian Blessed.

Brian looked confused when I suggested it but only from a technical perspective. ‘How would he do it?’ he asked. I showed him and handed it over.

‘Righto.’

I knew my time with him was coming to a close and he would soon have to appear in front of the great and good of the East Midland renewable energy world. . I left it to him to script it.

He spoke like Augustus rather than in his current mode. The years rolled away and he was Augustus again, albeit older and hairier. His eyes never left mine as he spoke.

‘Hello, this is Brian Blessed here, the Emperor Augustus. I’m afraid Karl can’t get to his phone at the moment so if you’ll leave a message with me, the Emperor Augustus, I’ll see that he gets it. Alright?’

And then after a pause and in front of a confused party who had come to fetch him:

‘Quinctilius Varus? WHERE ARE MY EAGLES???’

I swear the waiting staff winced as the walls shook.

He handed me my phone and slapped me on the shoulder before standing up and heading back to the reception.

I couldn’t speak.

I left and got into my car. I had Brian Blessed/Augustus as my voicemail.

I headed south and put the voicemail on over the speaker thing. With all respect to the great George Septhon, this was the business.

It hadn’t recorded.

For some reason it hadn’t recorded.

For the first and only time in my life, I pulled my car over into a layby and placed my head on the steering wheel for a full ten minutes.

I don’t think I’ve ever recovered from that disappointment.

Rome recovered the Eagles from the depths of the Germanic forests decades later. I haven’t managed to recover my voicemail.

I Claudius' celebrates its 50th anniversary this summer and they’re all on the BBC I-Player.

Don’t miss out.

Karl

Buy Karl an Eagle

Thoughts, not sympathies, mind. It’s important to state that.

Yes, weirdo Ted Kaczynski used the U.S postal system to send bombs to universities, scientists and various corporate bodies across the country, killing three people from 1978 to 1995, purely to satisfy his own twisted view of the world. But he did have this going for him:

(From Wiki)

“In 1971, Kaczynski moved to a remote cabin without electricity or running water near Lincoln, Montana, where he lived as a recluse while learning survival skills to become self-sufficient.”

Quite the life. One I dream of.

His cabin was in a forest in the middle of nowhere. He rarely came into contact with anyone at all, just alone with his thoughts and away from responsibilities and timetables. Admittedly those thoughts did no one any good at all, but there’s something romantic if not entirely practical about that level of isolation.

Imagine being so cut-off from modern society that you were untouched by it.

Ted Kaczynski did not buy products which required membership to a company nor receive a host of emails about the courier’s estimated time of arrival, the courier’s current position, the courier’s new time of arrival, a further missive to say that the item he was holding and was now in his possession and, of course, a communication asking ‘How did we do today?’

And then one reminding him that this was his last chance, his very last chance, to provide feedback on the courier’s excellent delivery skills. I mean, who’d want to pass up that sweet chance?

Given Ted’s history of posting stuff this is just as well.

Earlier this week, my mate Gerry on Bluesky posted an article from a man who was briefly in the world’s greatest band, Half Man Half Biscuit. That’s right up my street. I love HMHB and am fascinated with Nigel and Neil so I clicked the link.

Ah.

I read one paragraph but could go no further. Instead I was persuaded to scroll through an encyclopedia of adverts (‘Yesteryear celebrity now looks older due to ageing process’ - that’s sort of thing), and discovered that I’d have to sign up for a newsletter from the paper before it yielded its gold. One paragraph was all I was getting.

This wasn’t an article. This was a trailer.

I weighed these things up - interest in HMHB v more unneeded email spaff - and cheesed it.

I’m not a fan of this level of data mining. Furthermore, I’m not a fan of thinking we have no choice but to accept it.

Take YouTube. Jesus, that gets on my nerves.

There you are, watching an episode of House you’ve seen countless times (turns out it’s not lupus) and just waiting for Dr H to have that massive realisation that it’s termites in the wall that caused little Billy’s headaches or whatever when two twenty second adverts about car insurance infect the screen. Worse. Bad adverts about car insurance.

And you can’t wind pass them. You have to wait for the Skip Ad button to come into play. They leave it long enough for you to recognise and digest the logo or brand even if you’re fine for car insurance. They’re fine with you not buying it. They just want you to know they exist in tour subconscious. That’s enough.

I will make this promise to YouTube advertisers.

I will never, ever buy anything from you. I will always look away from the screen when you appear. You have shouted in my face. That impolite.

And I get it. YouTube needs advertisers, so do podcasts, but the fact that you can’t fast forward past them (in YT’s case) reveals them for what they are. A kidnapping of sorts. a wrestling to the ground with a logo attached.

I don’t mind advertising when I have a choice. Unobtrusive adverts are fine. Here’s one right now. Click on the button here.

Buy Karl a Twix or something

But the constant badgering and bombardment is appalling.

Commercial radio is worse. The adverts, particularly the ones with stereotypical regional accents, (builders are Northern, housewives are sent apoplectic at the thought of chocolate) are so poorly written that I’ve considered a career in writing them. How hard can it be? All you have to do is write the dullest, unrealistic prose and then have someone sing a jingle off-key. Ts & Cs apply.

Gambling advertisers are c*nts. Every single one of them. I will not be taking questions on this.

Wifi won’t leave you alone either. Go into a cafe or whatever, ask for the Wifi code, enter your email address and wait for their latest offers to appear in your inbox unbidden. There’s a place in Bury St Edmunds who are convinced I’m going to visit them and sample their continental breakfast menu.

A writer chum gets around this by entering the email address for a man who made him redundant 15 years ago. The poor man must wonder why he’s getting so many emails from mid-West diners. My mate gets about.

I’m also a hypocrite about this stuff to some extent. I write a football column every week and post it to Bluesky and the repost it hours later. That too is advertising, but I’d like to think I let you out of this Faustian deal. None of this ‘I will entertain you for your soul’ nonsense.

Ted would have had no knowledge of all this. That world was precisely the one from which he wanted to hide. And then hide because he was a lunatic murderer, admittedly.

He would have hated phoning companies too. I often call the council offices at one second into their working day, only to receive the standard ‘We’re experiencing high call volumes at the moment.’ At 9.01? Are people hammering the phones at 9am on a Saturday? Of course, they’re not. They’d rather you just went to the website and hope you get the hint.

It’s at times like that when I crave a freezing cabin in the middle of nowhere with a refusal to play along.

We can all live our own version of that. Stuff like only dealing with companies with actual phone numbers or refusing to update ad preferences on demand. We can unsubscribe from things which don’t concern us. We can look away from the screen when the ads are on. We don’t have to be spoonfed. We don’t have to play along. We can call the shots.

That said, my two novels are available on Amazon as Kindle downloads.

They do good work.

Christ, I feel dirty.

Buy me a Twix, you tight sods.

A season of transition.

God, I hate those terms.

A week after I polluted your inbox with my moaning about a lack of signings, I had since hoped to speak of unexpected plunges into the market, but here we are. The empty car park spaces remain vacant. Worse even, there seems to be talk of losing Curtis Jones to Italy and Cody Gakpo to North London though, with the latter at least, there seems to be a reluctance to countenance that.

Inter seem very keen on Curtis and even his performance against Leeds, albeit in a glorified training session, has failed to put them off. A young international and Premier League winner for £30-35m. Who can blame them?

But isn’t it another one out and no one in? It’s reminiscent of an old Fast Show sketch where a much put upon housewife would greet her inane husband on his return from the shops to ask him if he’d bought the basic provisions for the evening meal. He would reply, ‘Even better than that! I’ve got some biscuits in the shape of radios, a map of Cairo and an ice pick!’ His wife would smile weakly and accept her lot. I know how she feels.

‘Lads, have you bought a right back, centre half and at least three forwards including two wingers?’

‘Even better than that! We’ve lightened the midfield options too!’

The season starts in three weeks.

Of course, you can never tell how much work is being done behind the scenes, nor can we see how close we are to getting signings in, but we’re doing a hell of a lot of ‘reviewing options’ and ‘monitoring’. Liverpool love a good monitor.

The Leeds game highlighted the issues wonderfully. Great for the first half when the big players started but woeful once we had to rely on the back-up. Fair enough, it’s unlikely that that defence will be starting a game together any time soon, but it highlights the paucity of options. The squad is so light.

And it’s especially frustrating when you look at the context of the wider league. Arsenal are about to learn some harsh lessons about defending a title while City have a new manager. If we still consider ourselves in that company then we’d be in a great position to take advantage. Maybe we still are.

We’ve been here before after all. The start of a season where you look at the bench and wonder if it’s worth bringing your boots, only to see the Reds launch into an unforeseen strong start. You never can tell.

If we are sleepwalking into the new season and accept the dreaded ‘recalibration of expectations,’ can we at least have a good winter window and go into the following season with a strong squad of players with fully integrated players?

My main worry is that the club has accepted this state of affairs, is waiting for value in the market and is prepared to go into the new campaign low on numbers until things change a bit. Fans don’t like that. No one walks out of a ground having lost and been cheered by the thought that it’s at least saved us some transfer cash.

I suppose we have to be patient. Little choice, really.

Karl

The first footballing memories are always the best. The nascent appreciation of something glorious, something almost mystical, something you’re absolutely desperate to be a part of.

A blood red kit, a tiny Umbro logo next to a Liverbird and three letters that meant the world. The big ‘7’ on his back. The Kop swaying with huge parts somehow falling to the front of the terrace before being sucked back again. And the noise. A noise that could scare you if you didn’t think it was for you and the strange thing it did to your heart.

Kevin Keegan personified that period. Post Shankly, early Paisley. He was everything you wanted your first hero to be. A genius who looked anything but one.

Shorter than Toshack but a bundle of muscle and spirit. It was his ball. Always his ball. He never gave anyone a second’s peace. What’s more he looked like he enjoyed it more than any of us. He loved football and loved playing for the best team in the world even when he didn’t.

My Dad, a Blue, if a little Red curious, always sneered when his name was mentioned. That was enough for me. He knew trouble when he saw it.

There’ll be a lot of talk about his swansong game in Rome over the next few days, but my favourite goal of his was the 1974 FA Cup semi-final goal against Leicester City, our bogey side at the time. It’s a lofted volley on the run that he shouldn’t have even considered. It took us to Wembley where he destroyed his second love, Newcastle United, a month later.

Three years later he was gone. It was my first experience with footballing loss and I didn’t like it. What right had he to walk all over my eight-year-old heart by playing for someone I’d never heard of in Germany. At least it made my Dad happy, until his replacement made things worse for him.

Like Michael Owen two decades later, the national team took him to a wider audience and subsequently diluted my love for him, but he could never take away those early years. For me, Kevin Keegan was the starting line on this seemingly eternal race and I’m forever grateful for that.

When his death was announced today I had a raft of messages on my phone, many telling me that he was their first hero too. Not all of those messages are from Liverpool fans. Kevin Keegan represented the whole game in the 1970s.

I was still too young to go when he came back to Anfield just six months after his exit with his Hamburg side in the European Super Cup, and had to settle with radio commentary. There were no niceties on show. No slaps on the back. Liverpool won 6-0 - 7-1 on aggregate.

I was old enough to be there when his league return came after his move to Southampton in November 1981. This was my first visit to Anfield and his captaining the Saints felt significant. He’d got me there and here he was again. Like he’d topped and tailed my non-going years.

I met him a few years ago, outside Anfield after we’d beaten Newcastle in 2018. He took the piss out of my selfie skills. I love that photo. I love that I got to thank him for what he did for us.

Sleep well, Kev. You were still ours long after you left.

You never forget your first love.

Karl

I’ve been reading Michail Antonio’s autobiography, ‘Humans, Not Robots’ and it’s struck a chord.

I’ve always had a soft spot for Antonio, back from the days when I was briefly a writer for Championship games for The Times in 2014-2015. He was with Forest then and stood out to the point where I decided to follow his career. The other player to elicit this response was Brentford’s James Tarkowski. Man, he let me down.

Antonio may have had an irritating habit of scoring against the Reds, but I like him all the same. His book is full of honest assessments about how a player reacts to fans, managers and the uncertainties of life in the game.

Some of it makes for uncomfortable reading, particularly when he talks of players celebrating goals simply because it benefits their career and bank balance rather than what it might bring to the people in the stands. He argues that we want to think they have an affinity with us but it’s tricky if they know it’s just a place of work, another step around an ever-changing career. I get that, albeit begrudgingly.

The central theme of the book though concerns how players are treated by clubs. They’re routinely bought, rejected and bought again while being overly praised or criticised by people on the outside.

Sure, it’s easy to leap to the conclusion that the money’s more than alright so that makes up for it, but being frozen out can lead to deeper issues elsewhere. They can be blanked altogether for very little reason. He has no love whatsoever for Graham Potter.

He also mentions how his happy time at Sheffield Wednesday ended when manager Stuart Gray told him that he had to move on as he was too good for their level. A load of flannel, of course, as Wednesday just needed the money and sold him on as the commodity he was – a fact that Gray acknowledged when Antonio dug in his heels and said he didn’t want to move. Sod the fact that he had a young family and was just getting used to a bit of stability. Off you go.

Closer to home, this reminded me of Steven Gerrard’s book in which he talks of his disdain for Les Reed, the FA Technical Director in the early 2000s in the England youth setup. Gerrard thought that Reed was less than sympathetic to a young player who struggled on tour and just wanted to be home with his family rather than be away with people he disliked. Reed simply told him to buck his ideas up. Great work, Les.

Yes, but they’re paid a fortune and live a life of luxury.

Well, yes, they do or at least some of them do, but it doesn’t help further down the leagues. It doesn’t help kids who are plucked from school and abandoned at 16 without an education or a trade. We can all name players who came close to a professional career but were effectively thrown into the world with no coping mechanisms.

Then there’s the abuse. The most I’ve lost it with a fan was in 2009 when the lad next to me on the Kop booed Lucas Leiva’s name when he was named as a substitute. He wasn’t even playing! The target of his ire wasn’t starting, but there he was, booing a player from a team he loves. I’ll never understand that.

I like to think we’re different in that regard. When Daniel Ayala made his home debut in 2009 following Martin Skrtel’s head injury the Kop went over the top in celebration of his simple passes. A two-yard ball brought support through applause. It worked and he had a faultless game. The same thing happened when Adrian came on for an injured Alisson on the opening day of the 2019-2020 season and drunk on Champions League success, we greeted him like he was Bill Shankly incarnate. He had a great game.

We boo players and managers now but that’s for another time.

I’m no different when it comes to shouting at players. A downright hypocrite when it comes to this stuff, but it is important to remember that the game happens to them as much as it does us. Just look at the World Cup final. Both teams just want to get out and play the most important game of their lives but then kick off becomes delayed and the half-time breaks take an age as the fixture is just an undercard to the altar of celebrity endorsement and banality.

When do we go on, boss? When Shakira’s ready.

I’ve used this column to harangue players for being out of touch with fans when they reach a certain degree of fame, but I’ve every sympathy with the lower league player whose life changes because a new manager has come in and doesn’t fancy them or decides to do something new. How do you build on such sand?

After all, they’re only human no matter how convinced I am that they’re put on Earth purely to ruin my weekend.

Real football soon, everyone!

Karl

Without my permission, AI has provided a brief synopsis of the first five, so I thought I’d share it here. I’ve got maybe three to go. I’ve edited this so keep spoilers out.

Hopefully, I can polish the first five and finish the last three before too long. I already know what the final one is about.

Here we go then:

This document is a collection of fictional pub stories written by Karl Coppack, each titled as a “drink” and centered around different characters and events occurring in and around pubs. The stories explore themes of nostalgia, personal struggles, violence, friendship, fame, and relationships, all set against the backdrop of British pub culture.

First Drink - Just the One: Winners and Losers

The narrator returns to the Aldwych pub after eight years, reflecting on the changes in the pub and his own life. He recalls his younger days when Friday nights there were the highlight of the week, and his feelings for Emma, a woman he barely knew but gradually fell for. Their relationship blossomed briefly but ended painfully, leaving him with unresolved emotions. Recently, Emma reached out, leading to a reunion at the pub, symbolizing a reconciliation with the past and acceptance of change. The story captures nostalgia, lost love, and the passage of time.

Second Drink: Interpreting Archie

This story follows a man named Geordie who frequents a pub called The Ship and encounters William McCunliffe, a feared figure rumored to have killed rivals. After a recent violent robbery where Geordie seriously injured a security guard named Archie Bedford, he contemplates the dangerous offer McCunliffe makes to join his operations. The narrative explores themes of crime, loyalty, and survival within the criminal underworld. The tension peaks as Geordie weighs the risks and benefits of McCunliffe’s proposition, with the ominous disappearance of Archie underscoring the stakes.

Third Drink: Who’s Hardest Now?

This narrative revisits a violent schoolyard rivalry from forty years prior between the narrator and a boy named Craig Stevens. It recounts their escalating confrontations from verbal challenges to physical fights, culminating in an incident that left lasting mental scars. The narrator reflects on the impact of these events on his life, including his struggles with anger and eventual recovery through sports and family life. The story ends with a poignant moment of recognition upon seeing Stevens again in a pub decades later.

Fourth Drink – One More: The Prettiest Girl in the School

David waits anxiously outside Mary’s flat, ready to help her escape an abusive relationship with Peter Kelly and his accomplice Tombo. The story details the dangers they face, the fear of being caught, and the careful planning involved in their escape. It explores themes of control, fear, loyalty, and hope. Their journey involves navigating threats from Kelly’s gang while trying to find safety, highlighting the harsh realities of life in their community.

Fifth Drink – I’ll Have to Go Soon: Went to a Fortune Teller

Danny Sproxton and his partner Yvonne visit a local fairground where Danny is drawn to a low-key fortune teller named Pipkin, who predicts that Danny’s name will be remembered for five hundred years due to his unique aura. Despite skepticism and the modest setting, Danny becomes obsessed with the prophecy, believing it signifies a great destiny. The story follows the strain this belief places on his relationship, leading to arguments, police trouble, and social embarrassment. The narrative explores themes of delusion, ambition, social dynamics, and the search for meaning.

Equally, unmitigated support can only go one way and waking thoughts are always Liverpool based.

I hope you’re enjoying the World Cup. I’ve enjoyed the odd story — Curacao, Cabo Verde — but once Presidents get involved to change disciplinary measures so they can see their team get an advantage and (let’s be honest) take credit for it… well, let’s just say that interest wanes further still.

I didn’t know we could do that. The administrative body seems fine with it so maybe I’ll WhatsApp Richard Masters, the CEO of the Premier League, to see if I can get Dom Szoboszlai’s red card against City last season rescinded.

While the World Cup has been dominating the nation’s attention, the local issues are far more pressing. This week there’s been further reports of the Reds looking to sell more and more starting players to go with Robbo, Konate and Mo. These include Curtis Jones (again), Virgil van Dijk (the club having ‘regrets’ about the last contract apparently), Cody Gakpo (almost inevitably) and Alisson Becker (still under contract but you never know).

This is where a few weeks away help clear the mind. After the Brentford game, I would have happily driven some of those lads to their new clubs, but this seems a bit too much of a clearout. I mean, we’ve got to play someone. We’ve got to have XI on the pitch.

If those players make their exits there’ll only be Gravenberch, Mac Allister, Szoboszlai and Ngumoha available from who was available during the last league game. No goalkeeper or back four. Dom as a number 10...

And these are starters, rather than squad or youth players who probably won’t make the grade. Oh, and there’s a new manager and coaching staff to go with it. And none of them have met whatever remains of the squad yet. So that’s good.

No wonder I’m not bothered about the World Cup. There’s no one to come back home to. Even two of our ex-players got a red card and an injury for England against Mexico – the latter without even playing. Impressive.

Of those suggested players, it’s only Alisson and Virgil who concern me. The latter may be a little past his best, but you can’t replace him like this. Limit his games, put fresh legs around him, sure, but we’ve got to have some continuity. And he’s the captain! The goalkeeper seems to be more of a ‘Can I?’ question to the club rather than a contract rebel. One more year can’t hurt his Italian dreams.

Maybe I’m clinging onto those two because they’re all that’s left of the Jürgen years now. Their signings really elevated the club and put it on the next level. There was a world of difference between Emre Can at centre-back and Virgil van Dijk.

And that’s the next test for everyone at the club. We don’t know what to expect now. There’s even a chance that I’ve never heard of Liverpool’s next forward line. It really is a new age with far too many vicissitudes for a worrier like me to contemplate. I suppose it’s also quite exciting too. I’ve never been one to turn and face the strange.

Nothing is certain anymore. Not even refereeing outcomes from long dead games. I’ve only just got used to the idea of decisions going to VAR, never mind Heads of State.

I suppose I want us to sell loads and buy loads who will all get on immediately and play gorgeous, winning football.

Richard Masters is yet to reply.

Karl

A golden game is one of those rare occasions where everything you do in a match comes off. Every block is true, every pass perfect. Not only that but I was vocal throughout and somehow helped the team keep shape. We won 2-1.

I get a golden game about once every two years. I’m more susceptible to the more ‘awful game’ variant. I’m an absolutely terrible footballer.

I should also point out that this was a very, very low-level game. Tubby lads in Norfolk rather than something involving uniform kits, but I’m taking it all the same. There are some talented lads — one of our number (get this!) was a semi-pro at Fakenham Town. But in the main the scouts stay away.

But what it did do was give me a buzz all the way through to the following afternoon. Not just the performance, such as it was, but the lovely feeling of being in control of the ball, of having a laugh with your mates and of not embarrassing yourself for once. The sort of feeling you used to get after a seven-hour game with your mates in the summer holidays.

You have to hold onto that for as long as you can and not read about the wider issues unless you want to be disappointed.

I read this week that most people’s favourite World Cups tend to be their firsts. Mine certainly was. Argentina 1978 was incredible. I was allowed to stay up late and watch grimy pictures from the other side of the world. Kenny Dalglish was there in a different kit wearing a different number. The Dutch looked amazing, Peru had one of the greatest kits of all time and Argentina didn’t go anywhere without a ticker-tape parade. It had an incredible effect on my nine-year old soul.

It reached into my chest and tweaked my heart. Even the ball was fantastic.

It was years later that I learned what was going on around the football. The non-football people using the world’s greatest game for their own ends.

The whole tournament was tainted with accusations of bribery, of deportations and of political chicanery.

Argentina jailed its most vocal dissidents before the tournament and there were reports of the home nation’s dictator visiting the Peru dressing room shortly before their game which Argentina had to win by four clear goals. Whether it was a mere hello or threats of sanctions from its larger, more powerful neighbour are not known, but there he was, talking to the Peru team in the presence of U.S Secretary of State, Henry Kissinger. Argentina won 6-0.

Just a coincidence, maybe – just like that the coincidence of the Argentinian government issuing Peru with a ‘non-refundable credit’ just ten days after the final.

Football is beautiful until it grows to the point of corporate and political opportunism.

Maybe that level of manipulation doesn’t exist here, but there are certainly power-grabs that have nothing to do with a bouncing ball on a green pitch.

This week the online pundit Mark Goldbridge publicly slammed Gary Lineker’s appearances on ITV where he plugs his podcast. ‘Cheap move for a decent presenter with below average football analysis’ the Big Chair lad said of the former Barcelona striker and World Cup Golden Boot winner. ‘Average football analysis.’

Baffling, though perhaps Goldbridge and his new cohorts on ‘The Overlap’ are a little jealous of The Rest is Football’s daily Netflix appearances and thought that this dig would sew unrest. In any case it’s a bit weird given that one pundit can talk about his glittering European and international career and the other can do that weird fake grimace when he’s not happy with something, which is most of the time. Another sideshow beef to the great game we can all do without if your interest in football is predominantly football.

And there are plenty of those. The current tournament being played in a country wrapped in draconian foreign policies, referees not being allowed to attend because they’re from certain countries, FIFA’s President telling the world to chill out about that, the last World Cup being played in a country with an appalling human rights record and the one before that a place where the ‘international LGBT movement’ is viewed as an extremist organization. Those three venues, all sanctioned by FIFA, whose motto is, almost inevitably, ‘For the Game. For the World.’

It’s easy to fall out of love with the game when it gets to that level of hypocrisy. The essence of it all but forgotten.

Last week, Liverpool sent me a travel coffee mug in thanks for my continued membership of my home club. A week earlier they told me that, though I applied for pretty much everything, I was now on 0 credits and have a better chance of playing for them than watching them at Anfield. It’s the most expensive mug I’ve ever inadvertently bought.

This game being THE game now.

But then you see the Ghana fans celebrating their late winner before it was actually scored (they had a notification from a live betting site) and the DR Congo fans celebrating on their own in Lisbon, in a sea of Portugal shirts, and realise that this is where we began our buy-in with the game. The rest is just corporate power blocs draining all the joy and money they can out of it.

And sometimes that’s enough. I had a freakishly good game on Friday. I’ll be average to awful again next week, but it won’t matter as playing the game at any age at any ability is what brought us all in in the first place. This is football without agenda.

I may have failed to mention my deflected own goal in this game, but corruption gets everywhere these days.

Karl

I ‘curated’ the site and added my own pieces whenever I could and was lucky enough to have Leanne, Scraggy, Thor, Jamie, Trev, Joe, Matt, Mike and Chris around to fill the rest of the schedule. I loved writing and researching for Some Green Grass and it was always a delight when I’d see an email from one of the team as I knew it was going to be something interesting.

From tales of the smallest league to the worst teams in the world to mad games and the times when society has intervened, be it through wars or drug cartels.

I stated in the introduction that it was for people who can’t walk past a game on a field without stopping for a minute. That’s the best level of the game. The most undiluted.

We were also there for people who can’t resist a bouncing ball. For those who can’t own the fact that they don’t have a modicum of talent but love it when a ball sits just right.

One Twitter account told me a couple of years ago that he once visited his grandad and found him kicking a footy up against the garage door. When he asked him what he was up to he said he was working on his first touch. The man was in his late 60s at the time. We wrote Some Green Grass for such people.

All we need is some green grass and a ball. Not Jim White bragging about his friendships with chairmen.

Here you go -

https://somegreengrassandaball.wordpress.com/

One week I wrote about being shit at football. It’s the one element of the game on which I’m an expert. I’ve included it here and updated it to add recent developments.

My own football career then.

Firstly, let’s look at Wikipedia and see how honours are detailed. Here’s Paul Warhurst, the former Coventry and Blackburn Rovers utility man’s summary.

Oldham Athletic

• Football League Second Division: 1990–91

• Football League Cup runner-up: 1989–90

Sheffield Wednesday

• FA Cup runner-up: 1992–93

• Football League Cup runner-up: 1992–93

Blackburn Rovers

• Premier League: 1994–95

There was no real reason I chose Paul. He just came to mind. I’m glad he did though as I found with some glee that he spent the last four years of his career at no fewer than ten clubs and now I want to know more.

That’s small beer compared to Alexander Hleb’s career though. Have a look at his list of clubs. It’s mad.

Anyway, there it is. A fairly decent CV there though. I’d forgotten he played in those two Cup finals for Sheffield Wednesday in 1993.

My own career is less glamourous and, at the time, could be summed up in one line.

Croxteth County Primary School

• Unused sub v Rudston Road Primary School: 1978

I was nine-years old then and sat on the touchline watching my mates getting battered 6-0 by the lads from Childwall. At no point did Mr Upton tell me to warm up before showing me intricate drawings of formations on a Liverpool Education Committee exercise book. He didn’t even acknowledge me. I’m not entirely sure he remembered that I was part of the match-day squad. I was at all the games anyway just in case I was needed so he’d probably just painted me into the background. Anyway, I wasn’t mentioned again when it came to squad inclusion. I was so bad that I was even dropped without playing.

That had huge ramifications to my career. Because of that I was never spotted by Liverpool’s scouts. Kenny Dalglish did not appear at the touchline with Ray Kennedy and Bob Paisley at playtime to talk excitedly about ‘the wee lad, Coppack’ nor did Princess Leia or Debbie Harry turn up at Moss Way, Liverpool L11 to cheer me on. I was insanely in love with both of them at the time and it would have buoyed the spirit somewhat had they climbed out of the Millennium Falcon and a limo respectively to cheer me on.

No, it was all done from the moment when Mr Upton shook the Rudston teacher’s hand and walked past me with appalling indifference – all dreams quashed.

Others were luckier. Crocky would later see the rise of Franny Jeffers who was born the year after I left primary school. He went to St Swithin’s School – the Catholic school near my house. Wayne Rooney went there too and later De La Salle school near his house. I could have been one of the ‘Crocky Three’ had it not been for Mr Upton.

‘Coppack making the breakthrough gave us all hope. We knew it was possible when we used to see him training on the fields behind Crocky Comp. You’d see him hitting the top corner from every angle. He was so humble about it. Franny and I used to ask him advice as he walked down Parkstile Lane to Roderick’s chippy. He and the girlfriend with the space ship always gave us their time. He was always the benchmark.’ – Wayne Rooney, 2004.

In my secondary school I didn’t even make the subs bench. Not once in five years. In fact, I had no discernible talent in any extra-curricular activities at that stage. I’d captained the school chess club at Crocky, but I don’t want to go too much into that in case the fame goes to my head.

I still played footy though. Three times a day at school – morning break, dinner time, afternoon break – and the odd night game with my mates. I was ‘alright’ at ‘three and in’ or ‘sixty seconds’ (regional variations call this game ‘headers and volleys’) but never got close to joining a game on a full-sized pitch. Boots were never required.

I did have one major advantage though.

I loved a header.

Put it in the air and I was your man. Oh, I couldn’t tell you where the ball would end up, but I was brave/stupid to throw my forehead at everything. Knee height? No problem at all. Volley height? Nah. Safer to nod it in or away.

I reckon I was a full year ahead of my mates in that regard. Others didn’t fancy the sting of a Wembley Trophy or mud (or worse) on the face, but I made Andy Gray look like Walter the Softy from the Beano. Slowly but surely though the rest of the world caught up and I was back to finding my level—being a bit shit.

And that was that, really. Liverpool never came in for me.

I play once a year with my mates on ‘Boat Trip Day.’ Every summer about 20-30 of us hire some boats and head down the Thames from Datchet and stop off at Runnymede to play in the Runnymede Shield. The lads have since renamed it as The Karen Pitchford Shield after my sister who died in 2018. Had a cry at that.

Oh, my record in the Shield? Two goals, two tackles and three assists from corners (all to the same lad who’s pretty decent) over a twenty-year period. The first goal? A scuffed shot with crept agonisingly past Mart in goal after he left it, thinking it was going wide. There’s a slight chance I’ve talked that goal up a bit. You know Carlos Alberto’s goal in the 1970 World Cup Final. Yeah, that.

I can’t even remember the second.

You’re probably in the same boat unless I’ve drastically misjudged my audience demographics. Jamie Carragher liked one of the pieces on SGG once so ...

Maybe you too would fancy yourself in the ‘crossbar challenge’ and can’t see what’s so difficult about it either. The bar was the easy part. It was the space below it that I had a problem with.

Football is fun. Even the agony of watching it is glorious. Being shit at it makes it even more so lovely. It’s the noise around it that’s ruining it. Well, it is for me anyway.

In 2021 I moved to Norwich, as you do, and soon joined the local Man v Fat side. As a predominantly shy man, it was tricky to join a boisterous set of lads and be immediately assessed by strangers, but over time I felt happier in my skin. A year or so in and I was captain of Al-Fattilad.

Months later I was asked to become Assistant Coach of the club to oversee any issues. This had nothing to do with administrative talent. I suspect being older and possibly less reckless than the others, many of which had a few issues, was the main factor. Maybe it was because they needed someone to do stuff no one could be arsed with.

Since then I’ve:

• Had my specs wiped off my face three times

• Deflected numerous own goals

• Scored with my arse and

• Lost 15% of my body weight. Another 5% wouldn’t hurt.

But it’s much more than that. I now play Walking Football and a weekly friendly with some of the Friday and Tuesday MvF lads. I’ve also started a parkrun group and become part of a network of genuinely lovely people. It’s made Norwich home.

My friend Martin Fitzgerald once advised everyone of our age to join an amateur team. It’s cricket for him, but it’s really given him a new joy. I couldn’t agree with him more.

It’s okay to be shit at football. Hardly anyone makes a career out of it and there’s a level for everyone.

One day I joined something called the Norwich Combined team. I went to my first game and watched them warm up. One of them twatted the ball up in the air and brought it down with the outside of his left boot.

No one applauded.

Do that on a Friday night and it would enter the annals, but here it was the norm. It wasn’t for me.

This was not my level. I played one game and that was enough. Lovely lads but it wouldn’t be fun for very long if I were targeted throughout.

Football really is for everyone. You don’t need to be fast, young or own a cock to enjoy it.

Anyone fancy a game of three and in?

Karl

Support Karl here.

In 2012 there was a Sky excerpt of Jamie Redknapp returning to Melwood to see the training ground he first visited as a teenage player in 1991.

It was standard fare. Everything had been changed and modernised. Time and an enormous income will do that. The all weather pitch at the back of the compound was in better nick, the food was nutritious and, from my own memory, there were no longer holes in the brickwork where kids could have a peek at the players in the sweatbox. Redknapp met with then manager Kenny Dalglish and the two reminisced about his first day at the club.

Redknapp then sees Ronnie Moran in the distance and bounds over to meet him. He says something complimentary about the great man’s legs but Bugsy’s having none of such small talk. He just stares up at him with a light chuckle and says:

‘Don’t come in here with a beard.’

Jamie Redknapp left Liverpool in 2002 and was 39 at the time of the recording.

I love that clip. There’s undoubted affection there, but Ronnie Moran’s first instinct is to tell him there’s something not right. Somewhere, no matter how small, standards had dropped and he was the man to point it out and rectify it.

I’ve been thinking about James Milner a lot this week too. The coverage of Robbo and Jurgen this week has led me down a Millie rabbit hole and, once again, I had a look at his autobiography. Talk about standards.

Jurgen called him ‘probably the most disciplined, stubborn, professional football player I have ever worked with’ and that’s saying something coming from him.

And it’s the little things. Even when the Reds were told they could sleep in their own beds the night before a home game, James Milner would check into a hotel to make sure he was adequately rested and his preparation was on point, even when he knew he was unlikely to start the next day. He was always the last player off the pitch at the dreaded Bleep Test regardless of his age and he never left the pitch without giving his all.

There’s going to be a dig at the players here, isn’t there? On and off the pitch? Well …

Last week I called for a Day 1. Since then, the club have announced the departures of Arne Slot and, unrelated I’d guess, Ibou Konate. There’s talk of Andoni Iraola coming in, but as I write this nothing has been confirmed.

Slot’s dismissal was greeted with joy from some quarters and a whole host of blogs, many of which told the world that he should be respected though they themselves didn’t bother much with that when he was here, infested the usual channels. There’s relief and there’s sadness. I hate it when a Liverpool manager leaves. It means we’re here again.

At best though, I’m ambivalent about this. It doesn’t solve everything as Arne Slot wasn’t the only part of the problem. Standards have slipped across the board.

My overriding thought was that the players and staff of the club can no longer hide behind criticism of the manager and their social media accounts and might have to have a look at themselves from now on. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind a bit of player power from time to time, but it’s a bit much when it’s against a manager who’s won the league and every metric of their output is down. By the Brighton game in March, Liverpool had been outrun in 26 of the first 30 Premier League games. That’s fine if they’re keeping the ball for long periods, but that was seldom the case. I’m not having it that a manager would tell a struggling side to do less.

I wish James Milner had been around last season. He wouldn’t be having that. There are standards and there are responsibilities that seem to have been forgotten.

Slot’s exit may have overjoyed the dressing room, but the blame blanket has also been removed.

But that was yesterday.

Day 1 it is then. Standards must be improved and adhered to ruthlessly across the board. There must be no more of ‘It was all his fault’ now. It’s time to stand up and be a part of this club and its future.

The new manager will be up against a Pepless City and a devastated Arsenal team who are about to learn, as we have, that the seasons after a title win are usually the worst. If we can unify what we have and end the senseless bickering around the club, then we might be onto something.

More than anything though I want a Liverpool side where I’m no longer at odds with every single element of it. I’ll never forget the end of the Brendan Rodgers era, a time rife with division, when a mate said: ‘I just want someone we can all get behind.’ We got lucky then.

Liverpool is again at odds with itself and I hope the new man can throw down a template of what is and what is no longer acceptable at this club. Gerard Houllier and Rafa Benitez had their critics but neither had any time for what passed for the dressing room when they arrived and immediately changed it for the better.

We’re in rebuild mode again but that’s often a good thing. Appraisals across the board, no matter how uncomfortable they are, are occasionally necessary if we want to carve an identity. Liverpool 2026 doesn’t even have one of those.

Football’s really hard and never an exact science, which is why this ‘He spent millions and won nothing’ argument always confuses me, but you can’t go anywhere unless you have buy in. Arne Slot had that buy in and then lost it. Arne Slot was asked to regain the title with half a new team and the others anchored in grief and couldn’t get going. There’s both blame and mitigation on all sides.

But we’re at Day 1 now. A new broom incoming and the opportunity for honest conversations and outcomes. I hope each squad member, the recruitment team and their overlords can at least wonder if they could be doing a bit more. They can.

More than anything I hope the manager has the standards of Moran and Milner.

That would be a start.

Karl

The pieces were in a metal tin and the board was in two halves. I reckon that, this being around 1975 (The Lesley Judd Years), that chess set was created in the early 1950s. Families kept hold of stuff then. Only last week while at my Mum’s I found an old yellow kitchen sink bowl at the bottom of her cupboard. My sister and I used to bob for apples in that in, yep, 1975 and she still hasn’t the heart to throw it out.

My Grandad could play a bit, in a ‘Best chess player in the pub’ sort of way rather than team level. He knew what to do. My mum couldn’t play at all but wanted Karen and I to learn. She duly borrowed a book from Norris Green library, learned the moves, taught me and then immediately forgot everything about it.

I was hooked. This was a game where you can’t get lucky. It had rules and plays and strategies and everything that pleased an already neurodivergent mind. I loved it.

Within a couple of months I beat my Grandad and was asking my parents if I could take my set to school. My best mate in the world, Gary Lamb, played too. He’d been playing since he was five and was absolutely unbeatable. As we were best mates we chose not to play each other in case we fell out. Mature, eh?

I didn’t need to take the set to school (Monksdown Primary, at this point) as there was a team and numerous sets around. I can still recall the smell of their shiny plastic and the touch of their felt undersides

.This one.

The teachers realised that Gary and I could play to a decent level and played older kids from the Junior School across the playground. We beat them. Then we played the teachers. We beat them too. One lunchtime (‘Dinner time.’ It was the 1970s and we’re Northern) Gary and I took part in a ‘simul.’ We didn’t know it was called that but it’s one of those things were one player walks around a room playing multiple games. We won every one.

We both joined the chess team and Monksdown competed in the Merseyside Schools league. Gary was Number 1 board and captain. I was 5th, the lowest board. I didn’t like that and asked Mr Dawson, the teacher given the chess team duties, why. He explained that some schools played their strongest player at Board 5 so they’d have at least one point on the board. I wasn’t buying it but he had a point.

We won the League and every game 5-0 save for a 4-1 win against Liverpool College where they served nice biscuits. Steven Hansen (Board 4) lost his game. Gary, Neil Petit, John Williams and I were unbeaten all season.

I’m coming to James Milner soon.

One of those wins saw us travel a mile or so up the road to Croxteth County Primary School. We won 5-0. At the end of the match I played their captain, Iain. Yep. I won.

Two months later I moved schools and that very room in Crocky became my new form room under the blistering glare of Mr Patterson. Their chess teacher, Mr Abrahams, remembered me and instantly made me Board 1 and Captain. Iain hated me from that moment. ‘Patto’ wasn’t overly keen on me either.

I lost one game. Brian from St Luke’s on my debut but I never lost again. Crocky won that League. We never played Monksdown which was a relief as Gary would have trounced me.

Basically, I was really, really good at chess.

When Mr Abrahams left his replacement took me to one side and told me that I had to knuckle down and ‘learn games.’ Old, dull, long games. This confused me. Was I being punished? I was still beating everyone back then, including him.

It turned out that they thought I had enough in me to become a Master. Not a Grandmaster - let’s not be silly - but a Master. This would take years and would involve me learning the main openings, common lines and, of course, turgid games from the nineteenth century.

I mean, I was interested in the wider game (My new best mate, Chee, and I were the only kids in the L11 postal district who were keeping an eye on the Karpov v Korchnoi world final which was played out to some controversy in the Philippines) but sit at home learning ‘The Game of the Century’ (Bobby Fischer v Donald Byrne, 1956) while my mates were outside playing footy? Come on!

I was at a crossroads. I was 11 now and distractions were coming in thick and fast. I left Crocky Primary and went to the Liverpool Institute in September 1980. My Uncle Dave (RiP) had leant me all his Beatles albums, I was playing guitar, I wanted to go to Anfield more than anything in the world and girls had weirdly stopped being irritating to being anything but.

Alekhine’s Gun and Mikhail Tal’s all out attack defence could take a powder.

I put the board away.

Six months later I played Stephen Green at school and, shockingly, he beat me. It was the end of days. The pieces went back in the box and stayed there.

Too many distractions. Too much growing up to do.

James Milner wouldn’t have done that.

James Milner would have glared at Stephen Green, gone home to leaf through ‘Bobby Fischer’s 50 Greatest Games’ and returned with a steely determination. He’d have made notes about the game, examined the young Green’s Scotch defence (Yes, I even remember that) and worked around it. Then he would have returned home and not played Style Council records until bed time.

James Milner and I aren’t alike. James Milner is the personification of dedication. He revels in repeating behaviours which benefits both his team and his longevity. He’s everything I adore in a footballer. Totally focused, a fantastic player, reliable to a fault and one hell of a leader. A professional in every sense of the word.

It’s hard to believe that he was 29 when he signed for Liverpool in 2015. His guaranteed starts at Manchester City were coming under threat and he felt he still had a lot to offer. Liverpool needed experience in the dressing room as heads went after an awful 2014-15 season and Millie was exactly what we needed. A vice captain who’d done it all. City fans didn’t take it well. He didn’t care.

There are two things in particular that stand out for me.

Firstly, faced with an increasingly Spanish and South American dressing room, he didn’t want to resort to sitting in an English clique. Instead, he learned Spanish and then spoke it to his chidren so they too would pick up the language. No xenophobia here. No Little Englander. If it helped the team, he did it.

For comparison, I once refused to read an article on the benefits of the London System opening because Telly Addicts was on. James Milner went to classes after training and learned the difference between ‘por’ and ‘para’ - a grammatical quirk which is impenetrable for me.

Then there’s the hotel story.

At Liverpool it was common for the first team to stay the night in the Hope Street Hotel in the city centre the night before a home game. My sister once had a chat with Raheem Sterling in the lift there. Nice lad, apparently.

This rule changed and the players could spend the night with their families and report in as usual on match days.

James Milner weighed this up.

Family is great. The four of them sat around the dinner table speaking Spanish with Yorkshire accents. What could be better?

Well, maybe a poor night’s sleep. Car doors slamming outside? The kids staying up late or coming into their parents room after a nightmare? I don’t know.

So James Milner paid for and checked in to a hotel the night before every home game. Phone off, no telly, no distractions. Just a box of teabags and a eye-mask. What’s more he did that for games he knew he wouldn’t start. He just wanted to be ready just in case.

You could use this to denigrate other players but if anything he became the bastion of what a professional is.

This led to accusations of him being boring, but even that was something he leant into it and was funnier than the Boring Milner Twitter account that began the trope when he joined the poisonous website.

That structured lifestyle gave him many more years in the game. It also meant that he could win pretty much every Bleep Test against much younger players.

James Milner retired today, just days after Arne Slot’s departure and with a new coaching team to come in. I’d love to have Milner at Anfield next season and I really wish he’d been there through the weeks of players’ spoiled strops last season. Liverpool needs a metronome of standards and he’d be perfect.

Ironically, I wrote about him for today’s Anfield Wrap column before his retirement was announced. He’s the template of what a Liverpool player should be. Flair and skill is one thing but it’s nothing without the attitude to back it up.

I hope he forgets his love of Leeds United and remembers us. I’d feel so much better with him on the sidelines.

As for me, I’m still on Chess.com as TheCenci but I’m shite now.

Karl

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Talk about cursed.

Liverpool were abject in 14-15. Dire. It was hard to work out what the low point was as there were so many candidates. Maybe the FA Cup semi-final defeat to Aston Villa where we played midfielders up front and left a striker on the bench. Or, of course, the humiliating nadir that was Stoke 6-1 on the last day of the season.

Having read those chapters back, it’s clear that I saw Stoke as the final insult. I wrote:

‘This season just looks like mush with targets not met, players being played out of position and absolutely no passion once things go wrong. I want a new Liverpool. I want a Liverpool which is infuriated when it goes behind. I want a Liverpool which shrugs off criticism and is unharmed by troublesome squabbles with wantaway players. I want a Liverpool which won’t settle for the top four and wants to be top of everything. Then to have the urge, the passion, to do it again the year after. I don’t want to be a party to sponsorship deals sold as news, to nice PR pieces about the players or excuses, excuses, f__ing excuses.’

It’s good to see we’ve moved on.

Even the troublesome squabbles with wantaway players struck an eerie chord.

I also call for a new day. I’d been listening to Cuyahoga by R.E.M from their album Life’s Rich Pageant and the opening line had resonated with me.

‘Let’s put our heads together/Start a new country up.’

Well, quite.

The middle eight of that song reads: ‘Rewrite the book and rule the pages/Saving face/secured in faith/Bury, burn the waste behind you.’

It’s time to put 2025-6 away. It’s even time to put Jürgen Klopp away and confine him to history. Take a picture here. Take a souvenir. It’s time to start a new country up.

We’ve little choice anyway. Mo and Robbo have gone, leaving just Alisson and Virgil left from the team which carried a huge trophy off a Madrid pitch in 2019. They too will be looking elsewhere before too long.

Rewrite the book and rule the pages.

No one likes a Day 1. It’s the hardest point of any journey with things more likely to go wrong than right, but it’s also a line in the sand. Liverpool are entirely without character now. A blank page. No one trusts anyone else, the fans are at each other’s throat and no one, literally no one, is saying ‘We do this now.’ It’s time to put an end to that and this blanket fury.

Scary, yes, but also an opportunity. Like Brendan Rodgers before him it’s difficult to assess what a par Arne Slot season looks like. For a league title and an empty hole of a season read Rodgers 2013-15 seasons. The wheat and the chaff blown up in technicolour.

Slot, Hughes and Edwards have 55 weeks of contract to go so they either begin again or hand it over to someone with an idea of what happens next. Jürgen Klopp came in and built the Liverpool world anew. No one’s saying that’s easy and there’s huge mitigation for Slot’s awkward second album, but there has to be both character and a plan to drag us out of this fug, this swamp.

Liverpool lost 12 league games last season. Defeats were normalised by March. Standards have dropped to that degree. That has to be the first change.

Whether you’re with or against the manager (and that ‘change the world in 55 weeks’ thing makes me sceptical to say the least), we have to look at a strategy to overcome whatever the hell that season was supposed to be. The players included. No matter how safe they feel from an Instagram comments section, they have to look at themselves and remember who they play for. They can start by trying to do so with each other.

But that was last year and that’s gone now. Start again. Build again. Just mark this as the point where someone stands up and takes the reins.

Take a picture here. Take a souvenir.

Karl

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‘What was your first World Cup?’

‘Italia ‘90’

‘Ah, you’re mid 40s.’

Mine was 1978 when Scotland went to Argentina not just to compete, but to win it. That was quite the statement from manager Ally McLeod. The English press leapt on it, possibly in revenge for their own country failing to qualify, and pilloried him when they inevitably failed to get out of the group stages.

I was coming up to ten years old back then. Four years earlier I’d sat through the 1974 World Cup final with my Uncle Tony and wanted the orange team to win, mostly because they wore orange. It’s still my favourite colour today. Maybe this is why.

I was more up to speed in 1978. Ten years old and facing the prospect of days of actual live football on both BBC1 and ITV. This was a huge development, particularly as it was the only the Cup final and the Home Internationals that received such coverage. Now I had access to everything, even Iran v Peru. Absolutely huge.

You can time stamp your life in World Cups. Here are mine:

1982 - Second year of school. Panini sticker books. Watching a bit of England-France in a telly shop window while I was waiting for the bus home from school. Subbuteo heavy days.

1986 - Post school. The Probe Records years. The Smiths. Staying up late to watch England-Poland and Lineker’s hattrick. My Dad saying Everton had qualified for the next stage as a consequence.

1990 - Second year of Uni. The semi against (just) West Germany in someone’s flat in South East London. Big piss up in the local town fountain with non-students. One lad sang ‘We won’t pay the Poll Tax’ and it got a bit moody.

1994 - Woolwich. Just bought a nice telescope. That comet flew into Jupiter around then.

1998 - Final at my mate Matt’s. The non-Ronaldo final.

2002 - Losing a bit of interest. Hungover watching England-Brazil. Something around that alcoholic lemonade that was popular at the time.

2006 - North West London.

2010 - Rooney swearing at the camera and being told to ‘go back to Liverpool’ for laughing about it in work.

2014 - Moved into the flat on the day of the final. Something about the Dutch but I can’t remember.

2018 - Just had to Google the final

2022/3 - The greatest final ever but what are we doing holding it there?

A gradual loss of interest as the years pass.

It’s the same with the FA Cup final. The last one I sat through was our own when we beat Chelsea on penalties. And I was there for that so couldn’t really avoid it.

But from 1976 to about 2015 I watched every second of every one, regardless of Liverpool being in it or not. Mostly not.

This might just be an age thing, but there are probably other factors too. The FA gave up its own competition when they let Man Utd off for a year to compete in the World Club Championship (if it were called that back then). Then there’s the whole FIFA kowtowing to the Middle East thing and the emergence of sportswashing.

I still don’t see how they could even claim 1994 was a success. I never got the ‘America needs to get into the game’ argument. I mean, very nice to have them along and all that, but we were hardly sat up at night worrying about it.

What they meant was ‘we’d love some of their big sponsorship money’. There’s a reason why the first African tournament was held in cash-rich (to some) South Africa. The game was no longer about a kid from Crocky watching awful pictures of Argentina and the Netherlands and being totally immersed in it. Now it’s more about who’s authorising the bank transfers and to whom. The richest probably won’t be watching the games.

Speaking of rampant mercantilism, do click the button below:

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I need a drink and a shower. Sorry.

And now the World Cup is back in the USA. Hmm.

Don’t get me wrong here. I love America. I really do. I love New York and I’ve near-frozen to death in St Louis. It’s an incredible place, capable of doing great things. What’s more I’ve got some glorious mates there and more than anything I’d love to visit Dallas and scratch my Dealey Plaza itch, but I won’t be going there. Not while that child is in power. Maybe I wouldn’t be allowed in even if I wanted. That last sentence might be enough to end all of that.

If you’re reading this, Don. Release the files, eh?

I suppose my World Cup lethargy also stems from a lack of opportunity. It would be impossible for me to watch every game even if I wanted to. I've got responsibilities now. I might only manage 4-5 and that would include all of the Scotland games (that’ll be three then). I can get away with them for seeing if Robbo can win the World Cup for Liverpool.

Then, of course, there’s the whole England thing.

I know. Everyone’s bored with people like me, a Scouser, having to explain the Not English thing and I’ve all but given up answering the ‘But Liverpool’s IN England!’ argument. It ignores the history of the city’s battles with governments of old and the cultural aspect is difficult to explain after half an hour of ‘You boo the anthem!’ People don’t want to understand. No one wants to ask ‘Why?’

That said, some people cling to the Scouse not English thing and wear it as a badge, like it’s a new thing. It can get a bit performative and I can see why that would irk. It’s not new to me though. I just don’t consider myself English and that won’t change.

(It’s also worth saying that lots of Scousers love the national team and their anthem and that too is fine. There are also huge swathes of the country who love our city too. Not everything is black and white.)

But patriotism is a problematic issue these days. Hanging a flag from a lamppost AT someone or a group of people should not constitute patriotism, but here we are.

In a recent Anfield Wrap Shoot Treatment, Martin Fitzgerald and Emilia Bona discussed her Welsh patriotism. Both agreed that patriotism as an underdog rather than one that screams for some sort of dominance is a wholly different kettle of ball games. Despite the reputation overwhelming history around it (Wales hasn’t always got on well with England), the Welsh stand proud and sing about Wales.

As a Welsh-curious man I’m fully onboard with this. I watched the England v Wales game in the last World Cup in Cardiff. Neville Southall, the world’s greatest Blue, did a Q&A beforehand and only rolled his eyes once when I mentioned my team, bless him.

But that night was everything a Boxpark England game was not. The songs were from the fans rather than the usual Daily Mail hymn sheet. The young fans were proud of what they are collectively (though well done to the lad who tried to get a Newport County song going in the middle of a Cardiff pub at half time) rather than a support keen to show other nations who’s boss.

Wales won’t be at the World Cup while England are. You can see why my enthusiasm is wavering further.

The England team was sort of announced this morning. Again, I have no skin in the game but it seemed odd. Ah well. Unlucky, Trent. Or not.

I suppose the natural progression of this ‘not arsedness’ might see a day when I’m not overly concerned about a Liverpool game. Maybe not watch or listen to it, maybe not even know the score until a day or so later. That seems unlikely although they’re doing their best to bring that day forward.

If anything I’m looking forward to there being no real football, fume, opinions and confusion this summer. That’d be nice.

Bring it home, Robbo.

Karl

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I write the Monday email for The Anfield Wrap, usually a day or so after the Liverpool game. I seldom sit down and type at the final whistle as I like to marshal my thoughts such as they are, and try to make any arguments, celebrations or criticisms fair. I like to think that writing should coax the reader, not shout at them.

That’s not always easy to do, particular as every game and every week this season seems like an attack on whatever element of support I have left.

On Friday I sat through Villa. I read the Salah diktat and saw Szob’s ‘Aren’t I doing well?’ photo. Then I marshalled. I marshalled, marshalled and marshalled. Nothing came.

I had nothing left. Nothing new to write anyway. It’s all been said.

I’m honoured to be a TAW writer and it easily marks the highest point in my writing career, but it also comes with downsides. You can’t please everyone and even the most anodyne column will result in vicious criticism. This isn’t helped by the fact that people read the column title (which we don’t write) and maybe the pull-quote before ignoring the content and then take all views (entrenched) from there. No column reading necessary.

An example. A few weeks ago I spoke of Liverpool’s awful season but added that there was some level of mitigation. One comment from a reader stood out.

‘This prat talks about mitigation without offering any at all.’

There were four paragraphs about the injuries, the weird right back thing and, of course, the impact of Diogo and Andre. I even went into the article to see if it had all been edited out. The reader clearly hadn’t been moved to click open the link and read my words of not exactly wisdom.

The other ballache of this is the comment without context.

At Christmas I wrote about my deep-seated love for Andrew Robertson. He’s currently the only Liverpool player I wouldn’t ignore in a lift. I adore him and waxed lyrical about his greatness. Comment number one:

‘The manager has to go.’

Wow.

Arne Slot hadn’t been mentioned once but here was Mr A Reader throwing in his opinion anyway. It’s one of my favourite comments ever. That and the lad who replied to a piece on Curtis Jones with a diatribe about how Anfield was sponsored by the Devil because it’s a card only ground now and that cash was dead - a violation against God’s law somehow. I read that one more than once. Now I barely read them at all unless they require a reply.

You can’t win. People rarely change their minds or are moved by a contrary argument. It’s why clickbait is so prodiguous.

How do you write about Villa and the Instagram thing, knowing that the responses will be depressing, maybe even triggering?

So I messaged the lads and begged for a week off. It was granted immediately. They’re not slave drivers.

In any case, on Saturday my girlfriend and I drove to Kent for a three day mooch around Canterbury, Whitstable and Herne Bay. I needed to put Liverpool away for a bit and do my usual thing of sitting in the passenger seat, frowning at my phone while working out how many PG Wodehouse references I could fit in.

So I was late to the party on the latest Mo Salah flounce. I read the comments to it mostly supporting him. Then I saw many senior players like his post.

No, I didn’t write my TAW column because I couldn’t be arsed with the grenade the next sentence would elicit. Here goes:

There is no place dark enough for those players to fuck off to.

You cowardly, blame-dodging, responsibility-swerving shithouses. You entitled, backstabbing gang of tits.

I’ll admit here that though Mo Salah has given me hours of joy and trophies over the years, I’ve gone off him enormously since his Leeds statement. The self-serving proclamations, particularly when he’s been shit, means I’ve gone through adulation to not pressing the button for him when he tells me what floor he wants.

‘If I speak there will be fire.’

That’s the only time you ever speak. When it suits Mo Salah or pushes blame away from him.

My main question here is what did he attempt to gain? An apology? The world to recognise that none of this season has been his fault? To tease the manager into making an uncomfortable decision about whether he plays or not on Sunday?

I wouldn’t play him or the lily-livered shithouses who backed him. I’d rather play van Bronckhurst from the bench with me on the overlap. The fucking entitlement of that statement.

‘Ooh, it used to be better when we had different tactics and the manager’s made me all slow.’ Fuck off.

And this isn’t necessary a defence of Arne Slot. I think he deserves another season in the same way I think Kenny did in 2012 before the owners were seduced by a dossier and a LinkedIn Gold Account or whatever they’re called. But at the same time I worry that this is the norm now and he can’t change, even with fresh blood. If he goes, he goes. He gave us a title so there’ll always be gratitude there.

But I can’t have players totally exonerating themselves from this appalling campaign and publicly blaming everyone else.

Then came Szob.

Look, I know. The photo of him eating deeply unhealthy food in a private jet was part of a paid for partnership and probably scheduled for a week when we weren’t supposed to play Villa, but you’d think someone would say ‘Maybe not now, lads,’ particularly when he’s only just getting over his City non-applause controversy. No, someone clicked the button because money and coverage comes first.

I can’t find any response from him about this. Only this apology for his role in the second goal.

"Sorry for the team. I made it hard for us with an easy mistake. Football happens but we move on."

Yep, move on all the way to Instagram to back his mate.

He’s been our best player this season, but this is another example of the distance between the players and the fans. The City thing, the posts of his expensive watch and now the private jet plus over-salted saturated fats just make seem like he’s really just a huge fan of Dominic Szoboszlai.

And people want him to replace Virgil as captain when he goes.

Like everyone else I can’t wait for Sunday to become Monday and we can put this season in a box before burying it and burning it. The burying the ashes and then burning it again. Twice.

I’m going to Liverpool on Sunday but not for the match. I’m playing in a charity game and then driving home just as the Reds kick off so I’ll miss the whole thing. I can’t say I’ll regret that.

It means I won’t see Robbo for one last time, but it means I can write about him early for next week. Unless he gets booed. Or his spoilt teammates crucify him online. You never know these days.

So many frowns now. The players, the manager, the management team, Hughes et al., the booers, the lads who sit in big chairs and fake outrage at everything and probably Mighty Red while we’re at it.

At times like this you can only go to your template reason for supporting them. The childlike love of the badge regardless of how much they’re all damaging it.

Ah, well. At least we get the summer off.

Up the (very small part of me which loves) the Reds.

Karl

Anfield is usually expectant and supportive by nature. There’s usually a Day One where past crimes are paid and we can start again. Just win today and we’ll go from there. Sometimes even a draw is a start, but not right now.

Anfield underwent quite the journey on Saturday. From supportive to confusion to angry confusion and back to supportive again before the substitution of Rio Ngumoha. Then people lost their minds and everything developed into a fury competition.

Anger and frustration I get, but I can’t get on board with booing in any context. It’s childish and smacks of being spoiled. Oh, I’m fully onboard with the central message. It’s just that we take great pleasure in deriding a club not a million miles away for doing it for little reason and now we’re doing it at a substitution — a substitution I can sort of understand, regardless of how it blunted us further. But boos aren’t for me. Everyone else boos. Liverpool don’t. Now we do.

I was asked ‘But how else can we vocalise our frustration at the manager?’ by various furious people on Saturday afternoon. Well, I don’t think Arne Slot was in any doubt about how the supporters felt about him at that point. I like the Spanish hanky-waving thing. It’s more damning. That’s if that’s your thing.

But at some point we’re going to have to look at repair. It’s too easy to calm all ills with ‘Just sack Slot’ as it supposes that a simple reverse on everything will bring back the Champions. It’s also fair to say that there are things out of his control.

‘Go on then, genius. What would you do?’ was one response to my email last week. A fair question, albeit one that supposes I’m paid to do that sort of thing. We can’t fix the main forwards all being out at the same time, but I’d have a look at wasting an aggressive midfielder at right-back, particularly when Alexis Mac Allister is begging to be released to a beach (though he was marginally better this week, as he at least made a tackle or two) and the inclusion of Jeremie Frimpong in any formation that doesn’t involve wing-backs which we don’t play. Neither a defender nor a front player. Just quick and another lad played out of position because we’ve got no one else.

But many things are in his hands and when you see senior players squabbling on the pitch, wondering who’s picking up who and who’s going to press next and with whom, it’s not right and has to stem from a basic coaching issue. Either his instructions are too elaborate, they don’t work or the players are ignoring him and are just muddling through it without direction but with bucketloads of fear.

Anger is fine. It’s immediate and is the occasional product of an emotional club and fanbase; but at some point we have to look at turning it around.

Stu Wright, the personification of ire on the Post-Match Show, made the point about the manager’s press conference when he talked about ‘getting over the line’ and into the Champions League. Liverpool shouldn’t be falling over line as if the very act itself justifies the nonsense that’s made even that basic requirement. I can see Slot’s point though. We just want this season to end. Write it off and move on.

But is the final whistle against Brentford going to draw that line? Many will come, many will go and the injured will recover. What can Arne Slot do with all of that? Which is the typical Arne Slot season? The shite we’ve seen recently or the one that walked to the title. I’m not sure.

I asked a similar question after the first two Brendan Rodgers campaigns. His first was woeful, his second, one of our favourites ever. We’re in a similar boat here. The question is, do we take the risk? By the end of Brendan’s third season, most of us wanted a change.

Two games left, thank God. The anger will continue, probably regardless of what happens in them as the tone is set, but we have to work on putting this to bed and go back to what we’re best at with or without Arne Slot. No one wants to boo forever and people will eventually want their minds back.

Karl

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At the most basic level, this could just look like the emptiest of patronages. Here I am, taking precious time out of your day to seemingly review/promote a book by, yes, let’s face it, a mate. I know. I mean, where’s the objectivity? The gall of it.

Reviewing books is hard which is why I’ve written so few of them. My friend Joanne once asked me to review one as a favour for her brilliant website https://10mh.net/ simply because The Ramones are mentioned in there and I can’t resist anything Ramones adjacent. Another mate (and writing mentor - she’s partly responsible for my being here at all), Sara, shoved some Ripper fiction under my nose last year and bit her lip as I delivered my verdict. Luckily, I found something I liked in both books which is probably just as well.

But, reviewing a mate’s book. Smacks of ick, doesn’t it?

Well, tough.

This is made easier by the fact that I love Martin’s writing and the JFK assassination has long held a fascination for me. In fact, as strange as this seems, I knew Martin for a while before I discovered that he too is fascinated by the most infamous six seconds in American history, although his obsession far outweighs mine. I mean, he’s been there and met people like Mary Moorman. He’s stood on the spot where Abraham Zapruder did at 12:30pm on 22nd November 1963. He’s been to the sixth floor of the Texas School Book Depository and had a look at where Kennedy was below. He’s also interviewed people, spoke at conferences and is on nodding terms with the man who drove Lee Harvey Oswald to his job at the Texas School Book Depository that day. I can’t match that.

That reminds me of this from a Bill Hicks routine:

“I love talking about Kennedy. I was just down in Dallas, Texas. You know you can go down there and, er, to Dealey Plaza where Kennedy was assassinated. And you can actually go to the sixth floor of the School Book Depository. It's a museum called... 'The Assassination Museum'. I think they named that after the assassination. I can't be too sure of the chronology here but... Anyway they have the window set up to look exactly like it did on that day. And it's really accurate, you know, cos Oswald's not in it.”

Martin has little interest in whether Lee Harvey Oswald was crouched at the window on the sixth floor or not. The Umbrella Man isn’t about that.

A side note here.

I’m fascinated with the Whitechapel Murders of 1888 (it’s gauche to term them ‘the Jack the Ripper' murders. Why give him and his cute nickname the publicity?) and have done the equivalent of Martin’s stroll around Dealey Plaza, Dallas. Whereas he’s shakily stood on Zapruder’s spec, I’ve visited four of the five murder sites (Mary Kelly’s site is currently behind some double doors in the middle of an impenetrable office building) hundreds of times and stood where important witnesses saw the most mysterious serial killer in British history. I’ve written extensively on every aspect of the Autumn of Terror, podcasted, spoken at live events and am now MC and part organiser of the East End Conference. What’s more I’ve interviewed some big hitters in the field and am proud to call some of these incredibly talented people my friends.

And here’s the rub.

Similar to Martin’s view of Oswald and the who, the what and the why, not one of them is especially interested in the identity of the killer. If anything, he’s been relegated to a bit part in all this. Personally from a Whitechapel perspective, I’d much rather have a sit down with a George Hutchison, the man who claimed he saw Mary Kelly with her murderer on the night she was killed but probably didn’t, than with the man himself. Other than his name, what could I possibly learn from that psychopath? George, however, would be a fascinating pint, the shameless charlatan.

This is possibly because we’ll never know for sure how many shooters there were in Dealey Plaza that day or just how JtR got away with it in the packed streets of Whitechapel E1. Sure, it’s fun to wander into a warren of speculation (unlike The actual Warren Commission, who investigated the assassination and offered up the blandest of cases), but you can’t win even if you know the answer. If someone tells you categorically that x is the killer, you’ll always find a way to deny it. After all, where’s the fun in finality?

For Lee Harvey Oswald November 1963 read Aaron Kosminski August to November 1888.

Yes, they’re the favourites in the two cases, but it’s not enough for me. I’d be more satisfied with a bona-fide photo of Frederick Abberline, the Inspector in charge of the 1888 case, or a document that confirms that Mary Kelly was or wasn’t her real name (no one knows for sure and there’s only one photo of Fred and we only think it might be him). After a while, the ephemera will take over the bigger picture.

Martin calls this ‘zooming in’ and he zooms in to such a degree that he brings an already incredible story to life. Dealey Plaza wasn’t just the quieter road and last place to see Kennedy’s motorcade before it hit the highway. No, he’s discovered that all sorts of strange and wonderful people were there. If Oswald or whoever had missed the target or if Zapruder hadn’t gone back to get his camera that day, we’d never hear their story. They were just bystander. Well, until you zoom in.

Why strange and wonderful?

Well, as Martin points out, these are people who aren’t interested in the main event. They could have had a look at Kennedy on Main Street, but they chose the very last yards to see him. No one said ‘Let’s go and see JFK at Dealey Plaza tomorrow.’ No, they thought about where they should go and chose to be away from the crowds, not in the midst of them.

Abraham Zapruder wasn’t overly keen on creating the film that made his name. He left his camera at home that morning and even when he was told by his staff to go and get it, he still passed it on to someone else. He did all he could not to be THAT Abraham Zapruder. Even his secretary, who held onto him to ease his vertigo on top of the wall, wasn’t keen on being there. She had no love for the President whatsoever and had used her extended lunchbreak to open up a bank account. She found out that the banks were closed because of the Presidential visit and just happened to run into her boss on the way back to work

These are people who didn’t want to witness an assassination and cement their place in history. History just took over and embroiled them in it.

You can see both of them at the top of this photo though this looks a bit brushed up to me.

But there were some odd people about.

Have a look at the Zapruder film. WARNING: If you haven’t seen this before then exercise caution. We’re all far too sanitised to it after all this time, but ultimately this is footage of a man getting shot in the head. This too is an issue in the Whitechapel Murders world. We Ripperologists (ugh) look around the Mary Kelly photo so much that we’re almost fine with the collection of skin that sits in the middle of the frame. After a while, the sickening murder becomes an afterthought but not when you see it for the first time.

So, that’s said, here’s the Zapruder film:

Grim, isn’t it? Sorry about that, but we’re not here to look at that bit.

Have a look at the dark image at the bottom right where the limo comes past the street sign. It’s an umbrella. A man called Louie Steven Witt held up that umbrella and twirled it around as Kennedy was shot for the first time. Why? What was he doing with an umbrella when it wasn’t raining? Was it a signal to the shooter(s)? Did it contain some elaborate weapon that struck Kennedy in the neck? After all, he’s possibly the nearest person to Kennedy that isn’t in the car, but what does it mean?

Louie Witt didn’t know that his appearance was to baffle researchers for the next 15 years. He just went back to his job once he’d recovered from what he’d witnessed and sank back into obscurity, little realising that pretty much every conspiracy theorist in the country was linking him to the murder of a President. We only learned what he was up to in 1978 and that too is weird as hell. Read the book to find out why and then prepare yourself for further questions.

On the other side of the street, and more visible in the Zapruder film, stands The Babushka Lady. Wrapped in a heavy headscarf as if in the dead of winter rather than the pleasant early afternoon of 22nd November, she’s seen 12 seconds into the Zapruder film behind a man opposite Zapruder. She’s also carrying a camera.

After the shooting, she stands around, taking more photos before heading towards the grassy knoll.

Who was she? What happened to her pictures? If there was a second shooter behind the picket fence, then surely her photos would have a direct line of sight across the stricken President. She might have the answer to the whole thing.

And the answer is - we don’t know. She never came forward and her photos have never seen the light of day.

Well, alright, a woman called Beverley Oliver came forward and claimed to be the Babushka lady but not everyone is convinced. She’s in Martin’s book though. Singing.

Yep, singing.

The Umbrella Man is a collection of these stories, so much so that Kennedy himself is barely mentioned. It makes it a refreshing JFK book as it’s told from the perspective of the road crew rather than the band. After all, everyone’s heard everything from the band.

There’s so much crossover here with the Whitechapel Murders. We want to know more about a short period decades ago and though we can’t learn much more about the case, we still yearn for closure. Then we worry that closure will end the fascination.

Personally, I’ve always favoured this theory. Well, it no less valid than the others.

Like me, you may have read dozens of books on the assassination and pored over Oliver Stone’s JFK, but this offers a more human perspective. Martin tells the stories with an arm around your shoulder rather than with a loudhailer in your face and they’re always the best books.

I want to visit Dealey Plaza one day. I’ll be taking this book with me when I do.

Karl

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The Umbrella Man and Other Stories: What We Talk About When We Talk About the JFK Assassination is available from the usual places including this one - https://www.amazon.co.uk/Umbrella-Man-Other-Stories-Assassination/dp/1837360251?ref_=ast_author_dp&th=1&psc=1

Sport and politics should not mix, claims the adage. One is about enjoyment and competitiveness while the other is about everything else. Football should be a release from life’s problems, not an addition to them.

This has been the view of many over the years. A small row erupted in Liverpool last season when a flag bearing an image of Labour leader of Jeremy Corbyn was waved on the Kop while Robbie Fowler was fined by UEFA for showing his support for sacked dockers in 1997. More recently, American football fans saw their sport politicised when several NFL players protested about police brutality against ethnic minorities. Journalist Stephen Moore wrote of the ‘taking a knee’ debate in The Washington Times:

“One of the most amazing revelations about the shameful and unpatriotic antics by NFL players who are taking the knee or even lying on the ground stretching during the national anthem, has been the near-universal approval by sports journalists. The left has infiltrated the locker room, and sports commentators now all think they are social reformers and muckrakers. Fake news is now endemic on the sports pages too.”

Around this time, Radio Five Live broadcasted a documentary about the controversy in which a fan expressed a similar view albeit with less reactionary language:

“I’m fine with them exercising their right. I just don’t want to see it in my stadium when I’m trying to enjoy a game.”

This would not be a welcome view in the Madrid barrio or district of Vallecas or of the embodiment of its local pride – Rayo Vallecano de Madrid. Here, football and politics are one and the same thing.

Vallecas lies to the south-east of central Madrid and is divided into two areas – Villa de Vallecas and Puente de Vallecas. In the latter area at the Campo de Futbol de Vallecas play Spain’s last true neighbourhood club. El Rayo.

There’s something fascinating about the third club in large cities and districts. Partick Thistle are dwarfed in terms of resources by their Glaswegian neighbours Rangers and Celtic while Tranmere Rovers sit many divisions away from Liverpool and Everton across the River Mersey. El Rayo have little in common with Atletico Madrid and practically nothing at all with the commercial might of Real.

Agrupacion Deportiva El Rayo were formed in 1924 in the home of Mrs Prudencia Priego. Mrs Priego had four sons. Julian became the club’s first ever president while Juan would be their first captain. The club changed its name to Apgrupacion Deportiva Rayo Vallecano in 1947 and have been known by its current name since 1995.

Those family ties have never really been broken in Vallecas. There can’t be any club in the world so tied to its community. Vallecas is a working class suburb and one proud of its roots. In the 1960s it became a hotbed for Spanish immigration into the capital city and, subsequently, an area of passionate Franco resistance during the Generalissimo’s reign. Nowadays, it is opposed to the gentrification of its city and fervently left-wing in its outlook.

It is difficult to find the correct term for what Rayo represent in the community, but it is certainly the place where the locals congregate. As one former player said: ‘Rayo is Vallecas, Vallecas is Rayo.’ The two are practically synonymous and the inhabitants of the barrio seek social and political change there as much as any official chamber. Rayo is a club run on the basis of a socialist ethos.

The largest element of the Rayo support are known as Los Bukaneros, named after “the Batalla Naval of Vallekas” which is celebrated every year by the people of Vallecas. They are unlike most fan groups.

There is a difference between an ultra and a hooligan, though the distinction is seldom made. There is a lazy stereotype attached to the term. The British press paint ultras as violent by nature with racist and homophobic leanings. This is particularly the case in Italy where some groups have a huge amount of power and have to be appeased by the club’s management against the threat of vicious demonstration. Los Bukaneros are anything but. They are fervently anti-fascist and often hold anti-racist days on the terraces, which have since been adopted by the club.

Furthermore, this is not a club which lauds its successes and superiority over rival. Their identity is more important than any score-line. One banner at the ground sums up their principles in just three words: ‘Poor, but proud.’

Peaceful protests are common place at the ground, but so is humour. When the local police insisted on filming the ultras and confiscated their political banners, some came to the ground wearing orange – a reference to the prisoners of Guantanamo Bay – at the perceived criminalisation of football fans.

(Image from Marca)

When they were forced to play against Levante at 11am, the ultras refused to take their seats for the first half hour, leaving only a banner with pictures of Bert and Ernie from Sesame Street and the words ‘Please keep the noise down. It’s sleep time, not football time.’

Some fans protest through aggression, El Rayo fans use Sesame Street characters and, on one occasion, The Simpsons.

This humanitarian support was given a global audience in the case of Carmen Martinez Ayudo.

Carmen was an 85-year-old widow who had been evicted from her home on Calle Sierra de Palomeras, Vallecas. Her son had used her flat as a guarantee on a loan which he was unable to repay. The lender, along with a heavy and unnecessary police presence, put her on the streets.

News of this reached the club and the then manager Paco Jemez decided to do something about it. He later said:

“We couldn’t just stand there; we will help her so that she can live somewhere with dignity and not feel alone.”

Obviously the fans were in full support and, in their next match; they unfurled a long banner which read:

“The evictions of a sick state, the solidarity of a working-class neighbourhood”

The club found her new premises and paid her rent.

This is just one story about the devotion of the club and its fans to its community. What is significant is that they are still humble in their endeavours. The team itself regularly yoyo between the top tiers of Spanish football and have been known to drop further, but, in many ways the football is only of secondary significance. What is important to the fans is that El Rayo are honest. They want the players to be either from Vallecas or be its adoptive sons. Everything serves their ethos. Poor but proud. People over profits. That ideology comes before everything else including success on the pitch.

This came to a head last January when the club signed Ukrainian forward Roman Zozulya on loan from Real Betis. Zozulya was alleged to have hard-right sympathies which stood in direct opposition to the Vallecano support. The signing sparked outrage. On his first day of training at his new club, fans turned up with a banner reading ‘Vallekas no es lugar para Nazis’ – ‘Vallecas is not the place for Nazi’s.’ The club subsequently cancelled his contract and Zozulya returned to Betis, As Spanish Football Federation rules state that a player cannot sign for two teams in the same campaign, Zozulya was unable to play for the rest of the season.

Zozulya wrote a letter to the fans denying that he was right-wing. He is a founder member of Narodna Armiya (the People’s Army) in Ukraine which provides clothes and equipment for the Ukrainian Army in its war in Donbass against pro-Russian forces. This was misinterpreted by many as supporting the right against the left. Zozulya now plays for Albacete.

On the pitch, El Rayo have one of the greatest kits in Spain. Borrowing heavily from River Plate model, the home strip has a red sash across a white shirt while the away kit features a reversal of those colours. In 2015, the club launched a third kit which was black with a rainbow stripe, celebrating ‘the unsung heroes of society.’ Each colour represented a different struggle. The red stripe is for those tackling cancer, orange for disability rights, yellow was for “those who have lost hope”, green for the environment, blue for those fighting against child abuse and pink for the victims of domestic violence – a huge issue in Spain. The combination has obvious links with LGBT causes. In an age where club simply choose shirt designs by who can donate the most sponsorship, this is refreshing to say the least.

As for the current team, El Rayo currently sit on top of the Segunda Division though they have just been beaten by third place Sporting Gijon and second place Huesca have a game in hand. Managed by former player Michel, their top scorer is Raul de Tomas who is on loan from Real Madrid. They also have former Manchester United misfit Bebe in the team.

Notable former players include local born Alvaro Negredo, known as The Beast of Vallecas, Michu and Diego Costa, who scored ten goals in sixteen appearances while on loan from Atletico in 2012.

Rayo Vallecano was the final club of the late Laurie Cunningham. The former West Bromwich Albion and England international played scored the goal which confirmed El Rayo’s promotion to the Primera Liga in 1989. Two months later he was killed in a crash in Madrid.

The top division has often been cruel to the club as their 10-2 demolition by Barcelona in 2015 proved, but it would be quite something to see such a small club, brimming with integrity in the top flight. If they miss out though it won’t be the end of the world. After all, football is only a secondary consideration for El Rayo.

(I’d recommend ‘Working Class Heroes’ by Robbie Dunne should you be interested in learning more about El Rayo. Available here. https://www.pitchpublishing.co.uk/shop/working-class-heroes )

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I missed the first eight minutes, which is to say I missed the bit where Liverpool were competitive at 0-0. The narrative of the game was written before I sat down.

Bob Paisley’s only disappointment with Liverpool legend Ray Kennedy was that he was a slow starter. ‘I want you to start when all the others do,’ he would tell him.

There was good reason for Ray’s early lethargy. I can’t begin to explain the reason for Liverpool’s.

So many games are determined on confidence and momentum. Look at the Palace game. 2-0 up and the issues temporarily forgotten. Go a goal down, however, and we might as well go home. No fight, no show, no pride in where we are and what we’re doing. No plan either. As Johno said on The Ratings, you need a plan. Ours seemed to be just to turn up and hope.

You can go a goal down. That happens. Someone has to score and if it’s not you, you put a plan together to sort it out. The first thing to do is to not give a second goal away. Once again, Liverpool weren’t listening. 2-0 and everyone just wants to get off the pitch and get to work on the ‘We go again’ press release for next week. Beaten again by their own meekness.

Neil used the word ‘mitigation’ a few times in his post-match review and it’s important to accept that there are other factors for Liverpool’s awful season. None of what you’d suppose are our preferred front three of Ekitike, Isak and Salah are available so where are the goals coming from?

What’s the manager supposed to do? Cody can be a number nine of sorts but not one you’d start at Old Trafford in May. Equally, we don’t have a fit right-back apart from the one who’s now a right-sided forward, but isn’t, so instead we’re playing arguably our best protective central midfielder there. I still wouldn’t recognise our goalkeeper if I shared a cab with him.

But that mitigation only carries you so far. Alexis Mac Allister and Florian Wirtz both finished the game. They get 95 minutes.

It’s easy to shine a torch at Mac Allister and I enjoyed his occasional drives forward when he had space, but his legs have clearly gone. His clearance for the third goal was Sunday League level at best, but he’s playing centre-mid for Liverpool at Old Trafford. I think that might be the last time he does that. Nevertheless, he gets 95 minutes.

Elsewhere?

A few weeks ago, I was given a free ticket to see the Happy Mondays. I’ve never been a huge fan but like the odd song so it wasn’t a chore. On they came and kicked off with Kinky Afro. Then came Bez, their dancer, whose sole role is to gyrate around Shaun Ryder and shake the odd maraca. That’s his job. To come on, tell everyone to have a good time, have a dance and get off again. He doesn’t even have to learn the songs. Not for the first time I wondered if he’s needed at rehearsals.

It was great to see him as he’s entertaining, despite not really contributing anything to the songs.

See Florian Wirtz.

A flick here or there, the odd bit of skill, true, but ultimately, he’s just shaking maracas in the Liverpool midfield at Old Trafford against Manchester United. He too gets the full 95 minutes.

Mitigation is significant. The bench has few options; so much so that we’re asking a 17-year old kid to get us out of trouble at Old Trafford. Arne Slot has been dealt an awful hand, but my God, he does himself no favours.

One final analogy. Promise. In ‘The Godfather’ Tom Hagen, the Don’s advisor, is sacked when Michael takes over from his dad as head of the family. Tom’s stunned and asks why.

“You’re not a wartime consiglieri, Tom,” his brother replies. “Things might get rough with the move we’re trying.”

One thing has become clear this season. Arne Slot is a league winning manager and an exceptional manager, but what he’s not is a wartime consiglieri. That’s fine up to a point, but in the Premier League and with the game as it is, it’s almost always wartime.

The whispers around the club say he’ll be here next season, but I have my doubts. There are people who openly despise him and people who want him to stay, but there’s an increasing number of people who just want something to build on and doubt if he can do it from here.

I want him to stay as I hate it when the club has to start again, but I wonder how he can go to Old Trafford with no Plan A and watch Liverpool capitulate in Manchester for the third time this season.

This is a team desperate for the season to end. They can’t think like that as there’s still Champions League qualification to sort, but if Sunday’s anything to go by, they’ll do just that.

There has to be a change though. That much is clear. You can’t go a goal down and hope the opposition gives you gifts.

It’s always wartime in the Premier League and if you have no skill in crisis management then there’s only one way this is going to end. I wish it were otherwise.

Karl

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