Slow Drag of her fag.
Liverpool v Bournemouth
7th of March, 2020.
Even though there were plenty of car-parking spaces available – outside Davie’s house, I still went to the end of his road and then tried three times to squeeze my Corsa into the space on the corner, by the speed bump and why I may hear you ask? Because of superstition, because I thought if I could park there, then Liverpool would maybe get back to winning ways, as that is where I’d been parking all season, up until the Watford defeat.
It was absurd – I know but then, we footy fans are notoriously silly. I ended-up giving in to sensibility and parked right by Deano’s (of course) red Fiesta, almost opposite chez Wheatstone.
Carly greeted me. The gang was all there, for a change but there were, yet again, major developments taking place as Davie was waiting for a bed and a cooker to be delivered by Argos.
‘Sometime between one and three, Crouch’, said Carly, adding, ‘I know; right when the football will be on’.
Not only that, they were waiting for their roof to be repaired and this had caused a leak in their bedroom, which, as you can imagine, Carly was not too happy about; ‘I have to sleep with a bucket next to my bed’ she had hissed. Then, to cap it all, last Saturday, we’d had to push their mini up the lane, as it had shown red on the temperature gauge, only just having had its MOT! If it had not rained, it had deluged and to cap it all, Liverpool had started to annoyingly, shockingly, lose.
So, this was the game which we just had to win. The game where I had almost again, stood-up and taken notice that every result mattered and that I hoped, as though, in my mum’s expression, ‘a bomb had gone up the red men’s arse’.
Let’s be honest. Liverpool have not been playing particularly well; well since the Leicester game, if I’m really being critical. They have just about done enough to eek out wins and the 4-0 win over Southampton had been flattering. They had played well in little quarter of an hour bursts but in defence – not ours at the moment, they have almost been pacing themselves; not wanting to run out of energy. However, they did not start this game off on the right foot either.
At least James Milner was in – but at left-back? Surely this just shows-up the lack of quality depth in our squad at left-back; this has to be addressed in the summer, as I so wanted Milner to have been in the middle.
Bournemouth played us on the break. Especially with our ever so trapeze artist, with that long balancing pole, high line of ours. After a bright opening we managed to concede. I mean, for Christ sake like.
Yes, yes, Gomes may have been fouled by the fella, whatever his name was but what really concerned us was the lacksidasical attitude of our defence. Why didn’t someone put a tackle in? If Gomes was more alert, he could have fouled the fella. I would have preferred that than for the opposition player to carry on, cross the ball in and them score a bloody tap-in! What was Virgil doing? He has been impervious for most of the season and is allowed an off day but that’s about three he’s had now in the last few games. He can’t just glide through every game – as much as we love him too.
I was just distraught. That was the worst thing that could happen. Crumbs, the air was so blue, it was more navy than Everton’s shirts…. At one point I said to Carly, ‘It’s a good job you don’t have a swear box!’
‘I know. Init’ she said, ‘I’d be rich’.
It got that bad that I even uttered the ‘c’ word in some shape or form and I never use that word – though I have in work recently but that’s another story. Carly just laughed, along with Davie and Dean. Normally I am a quiet sort of chap who does not say boo to a ghost, but when it comes to Liverpool, that’s it, that’s what does it, they know how to push my buttons like a naughty child.
Bournemouth got through again – surprise, surprise, not. Adrian made a world class save and it should have been 2-0. I can’t recall the save but I know he more than saved our bacon as I was livid and beginning to really lose it, as I felt as though 30 years was getting even longer (that’s it; didn’t Adrian tip the ball around or something like that?).
Somehow Liverpool, attacking the Anfield Road End, managed to press. Actually, play a decisive ball through instead of this tippy-tappy football around the area, lose the ball and be right in the brown stuff when Bournemouth countered. Sadio Mane got free on our left, inside the area and then, even then, cocked-up the pass across to his right, to Mo Salah, who somehow managed to shoot the ball, low, through the defender’s legs and into the bottom left-hand corner of Ramsdale’s net. 1-1.
Thank God for that.
A drop of tea, a lushly soft marshmallow yellow and purple sweet and then Liverpool were somewhat on it.
The visitors tried to break on the half-way line and the ball came to Virgil van Dijk and as he always fancies himself as a midfield general, he played a first time forward ball, to Sadio Mane who ran through on goal and produced a low, decisive, rasping shot, which almost curled bullet like into the left corner of Ramsdale’s net to make it 2-1.
‘Yes!’ I cried, hoping that normal service was going to be resumed, that Liverpool would now go on, full of confidence and put the plucky visitors to the sword.
Not a bit of it.
Liverpool still gave them a chance before the break to equalise and it was a real relief to get to the break in front, somehow.
Before too long the said oven arrived. Fair do’s to those lads, they wheeled it in and just happened to be reds; from Merthyr. They were shocked about the way we had been playing when we told them; ‘We should’ve been 2-0 down’, I emphasised.
We helped Davie un-pack the oven and then before we knew it, the second half was un-folding.
The reds started well enough by attacking, with quick balls and some inter-change of passing, forward. That was more like it. It didn’t last though.
Liverpool soon went back into their shell. Was it just me who thought this? Well, no, as we were all going-off on one at the reds, urging them to step it up and get the game killing third. It never came.
Adrian was looking dodgy, and at one stage he came out to win the ball and completely floundered in No-Man’s land. A Bournemouth player lobbed the ball at an empty net and for all the face masks in China, it looked as though it was going to be a goal. But, then, hail the conquering hero, in the form of the never say die, James Milner, who managed to get back and somehow, somersaultingly, hook the ball from off the line, to safety. It may turn out to be one of the most important moments in the last 30 years….
We all looked at each other in dis-belief. It should have been a goal.
Milner, the oldest player on the pitch, and skipper for the day, had saved Liverpool’s blushes and in one fell swoop had given the reds a huge helping hand in our quest for the Title.
No wonder I again went off on one. Shouting and swearing to ever increasingly dizzying heights, as my stress levels were going higher than the roof of the main stand…
Liverpool did have another three – or four – minute spell when they looked threatening as Bobby Firmino put over a peach of a ball to Mane. It was a tap-in but Mane just couldn’t reach it in time. Mane seemed to be a bit more on it, as he had earlier produced a cracking, shot from on our left, outside the area, which thumped between Ramsdale’s left up-right and post. That would have been some goal.
Milner did the sensible thing as the clock ticked down, with the opposition playing with 10 men, as Billing limped around the pitch. Our skipper elected to play the ball short and keep it near the opposition area; so sensible and professional.
‘Don’t cross it’ urged Deano, who had even been up-staged by my shouting, for a change, much to the merriment of Davie and Carly.
Thank God the ref actually gave us something – as he seemed to have hated us all game, as he finally blew-up.
The relief was just incredibly exhausting, and we were only watching it in the living room – goodness knows how it had felt in the ground…
No wonder Klopp fist pumped the Kop three times in celebration – no doubt one was for relief.
The Fat Lady is putting on the red lippy, her red silk scarf, as she is maybe getting ready to perform in May, whilst having a long, slow drag of her fag…
7/3/20 1566
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