No one can doubt my credentials as a Liverpool supporter. I have stuck with the club through thick and thin, at least since Jürgen Klopp became manager, and went to Liverpool as recently as 1987, although that was to see a girl and not a football match. Priorities and all that. I was there at Ashton Gate in 1980 when ‘the lads’, as I now call them, beat Bristol City 3-1 (Dalglish 2, Kennedy R), although to be fair I went to the Gate every two weeks to cheer on anyone who was playing City in the First Division. And the last time I saw them in person was as recently as 1992 when from the Anfield Road end, I watched them beat Bristol Rovers 2-1 and was, if I am being honest, was proper gutted. But ever since then, my loyalty has never wavered. I am a Liverpool fan in all but name and all but reality. But I really, really like them.
However, I don’t like them, or anyone else, enough to watch them actually play live, so to speak. Last night’s easy win at Leicester City was no exception, as I sat anxiously in the living room wondering how many goals ‘we’ would score. (Incidentally, I am so committed to the lads that I missed much of the first half because we were watching an ancient episode of Silent Witness.) Perhaps, one day I will go along to Jürgen’s red army play but as things stand, the only Premier League game I have ever seen in person was on 25th October 1992 when I saw Wimbledon draw 1-1 with Tottenham Hotspur at Selhurst Park. And the only reason I went to that game was because my best friend and I had stayed in London overnight after the final of the Rugby League World Cup at Wembley Stadium where Great Britain lost 10-6 to, of course, Australia. So that weekend, I saw Mal Meninga, Shaun Edwards, Martin Offiah, Teddy Sheringham, Gary Mabbutt, Vinnie Jones and Nayim from the halfway line (one for the teenagers, there).
You may have gathered that I am anything but a Liverpool supporter, fan, call it what you like. I have no familial nor geographical connections to the city. What has drawn me to like Liverpool bears absolutely no resemblance to being a proper fan. I have the odd bit or merch but I contribute little else to the club other than by way of my TV subscriptions and if that somehow made me a fan, I would also be a fan of every other club in the land, including Manchester United and Bristol City. No, I am definitely just an armchair viewer. I am not sure if the term armchair supporter should exist since it’s an oxymoron.
But I really, really like them. I liked them during the Paisley and Dalglish years and while my interest waned when I was a Bristol Rovers obsessive, arranging my entire life around Gas games and social activities, it never quite disappeared. When Klopp became manager in 2015 my interest was rekindled. If I could get a TV season ticket and just watch Liverpool, I’d do it in a heartbeat.
Something about the city of Liverpool, as well as the club, attracts me too and it has done particularly since 1981 when Margaret Thatcher was urged to let Liverpool decline after the Toxteth riots. I loathed, and still loathe, Thatcher like I have never loathed anyone before or since and anyway I had long chosen my political side. The 1989 Hillsborough disaster and the establishment response right up to this day still hangs heavy in the air and I have always felt drawn, albeit it at a long distance, to the victims and their courageous families. And the bunker mentality which comes to light when Liverpool, city or club, is under attack appeals to my nature. When Liverpool fans booed the National Anthem during coronation weekend it warmed the cockles of my heart. After all, wasn’t it Her Majesty’s government which presided over the city’s managed decline? No need to doff one’s cap or to bow to so-called superiors who treat you like that.
Last night, it was the way the team played which had me purring like an overstuffed cat. Not just the ‘gegenpressing’ but the pure passing game, exemplified by Trent Alexander-Arnold, a once-in-a-generation player, who makes the game seem oh-so-easy. In any other country, he would one of the first names on the team sheet but in England we has to fit in whatever structure the manager so chooses. Anyone who saw TAA’s goal last night would surely realise this boy has the hallmarks of greatness. But then, you could say the same about more than half the team. The Champions League will be a lesser place without them next season, but at least it will free up my Tuesday and Wednesday nights, if not my Thursdays when they will be playing in the Euro Vase.
I miss the days when Bristol Rovers was such a large part, too large a part, of my life. Being a fan wasn’t enough to someone with an inherently addictive nature and it gradually consumed my life, dictating much of my social life, social events and even holidays. Now even being an actual fan, an active supporter of what will always be my team, Bristol Rovers, is a step too far. I would much rather watch a Liverpool team managed by a great German on telly than pay money to watch a Bristol team managed by a horrible Liverpudlian and even when and if that awful Liverpudlian, Joey Barton, is a grim and dark footnote in Rovers’ history, the damage may already be done.
The process of actually supporting a team is something I don’t quite understand. I didn’t choose Bristol Rovers, they chose me in a weird sort of way because I saw Bristol City play numerous times before I entered the kingdom of the rickety old Eastville stadium, situated next to the gasworks. Something just happened, I became a Gashead and I’ve always known that there could never be another club. I like Liverpool but I don’t live and breathe them and the disappointed feeling, even when they’ve lost a big game, doesn’t last long. At Rovers, my weekend, which largely revolved around the club, would be ruined if the team lost any kind of game. Now, I don’t miss anything, except the camaraderie (although that is a bad miss for me, I have to say).
I really, really like Liverpool but I really, really loved the Rovers. Nothing about my relationship with the former, which is virtually zero, bears any resemblance to my erstwhile feelings about the latter. Whatever happens, I can’t see myself returning to the days of football obsession and, frankly, neither would I want to. Also,I’m getting older and there is so much more I want to see and do. Never say never again, as they say, but then they also say never go back. As a lifelong Mr Inconsistent, I’ll leave it there and embrace both sentiments. Goodnight Irene, you’ll never walk alone.
PS. I’m pretty sure that’s the first time I have ever used the word camaraderie in a blog, or anywhere else.
