Liverbirds and ostriches

I’ve been struggling to make sense of it all and to try to come to terms. And I simply can’t.

Roy Hodgson and Joe Cole are the new opiates of the people.  Season ticket holders are more interested in meaningless friendlies in Germany than they are in revolt. The “Union” prefers a bankrupt campaign for hearts and minds to kicking over statues. Its leaders are busily positioning themselves as the de facto representatives of supporters in the deluded expectation that a new owner will present them with a gift-wrapped seat in the boardroom when they should be plotting to seize power at the turnstiles and in the ground.

I honestly thought we would be on the verge of Operation Anfield Blockade by now. Instead we’re ordering Standard Chartered shirts with the name Cole on the back and pretending that we always rated the snidey little rentboy.

I despair, and I have to face facts. Either I’m completely wrong or everybody else is. And obviously it can’t be me.

I’ve written all my letters. I’ve ordered my Inter Milan shirt. I have my personal little guerilla protest planned for next month. But it’s not enough. And I can’t think of anything else I can do short of flying over to Liverpool and chaining myself to the Shankly Gates. So I’m wrapped up in some kind of helplessly frustrated rage and reduced to thanking Allah that I no longer live in a Liverpool postcode. Because I think I would have committed serious acts of significant violence against someone or other by now. Which is precisely the kind of thing my doctors and lawyers are always warning me against.

Barring a miracle, I am resigned to giving up my season ticket next year and looking for something less soul-destroying to take an interest in.  In the meantime, I’ve taken to remixing melancholy songs to express my inner demons.