The Story Of The Blues

So what is subversive about love? And what is positive in the refusal of constraints? Well, it’s like this, it’s like Sal Paradise said – or was it John Lydon? Anger is an energy.

I’ve always been a Liverpool fan. My father is a Liverpool fan. His father was a Liverpool fan. Born in 1927, he saw Matt Busby play. And Bob Paisley.

Because my mother died when I was young I was brought up – all but exclusively – by my father and as a result I am very much his daughter. Football, music, literature; these are the things I learned to love at his knee. But not just any football. Only Liverpool.

I once let a boyfriend persuade me to accompany him to watch Spurs. It was one of the most boring afternoons of my life. If it’s not Liverpool, I told him, it’s just not rock’n’roll.

Shortly afterwards I dumped the cockney bastard and started fucking girls instead.

Anyhoo. Football.

Long story short, I’ve lost my love for the game.

Short story slightly longer, Roy Hodgson has smothered my love for Liverpool FC.

And it’s weird. When Hicks and Gillett were slowly suffocating the club, my love was fierce and unrepentantly optimistic. We would, I believed, fight a good fight, remove the twin parasites, and reap the rewards we deserved. When Rafa was fired, I was much more than merely furious but remained constant in my passionate love for Liverpool. This outrage would, I assumed, be the final nail in the coffins of Hicks, Gillett, Purslow, and Broughton. We’d get new owners, a new manager – I just couldn’t see Rafa coming back – and we’d all fall in line behind the new regime and move forward together.

But no. Instead we have Hodgson. An unlikable, unsupportable, preening delusional old never-was who is steadily inflicting the death of one thousand cuts upon my love for Liverpool FC while the new owners pursue a charm offensive that is meaningless without positive action.

Well, no more. I’m giving up. I’m tired of Hodgson. I’m tired of being angry. I’m tired in just about every way you can imagine. But most of all I’m tired of the toll he is wreaking on me and my relationship with the club and with some of my fellow supporters. So I’m done. I’m turning my energy in a different direction and I won’t waste another word or another thought on Liverpool FC until Hodgson is gone and what I can only describe as a Proper Liverpool Manager is installed in his place. And if that takes too long, well then I won’t be back at all.

It’ll hurt, of course.

My very first game was Kenny Dalglish’s testimonial. My father felt I should be there. And if my only lasting memory of the event is admiring Margie Clarke’s marvelously fetching red patent leather outfit well, so what? At least I was there. My next game was the Liverpool-Sunderland Cup Final. I’ve always been a glory hunter. I couldn’t get to Istanbul but I was there in Athens. I’ve been loving Liverpool FC for as long as I can remember. And, knowing my father, quite possibly longer than that. So yes, this hurts. And no, it’s not easy but it’s necessary. It’s a matter of coming to terms in my heart with the situation I’m in. A matter of choosing how things go for me and not having them forced upon me against my will. So for my own good, I’m going to start a revolution in my heart. For my own good, I’m turning my back on Liverpool.

I hope Purslow, Broughton, and Hodgson are happy.

I also hope they rot in hell.

Peace. I’m out.