Red Silky Scarf

Wales v Italy

1^ST of February, 2020.

I got there early; just in case. You know how Cardiff can be on match days – ‘Chokka’.

The Park & Ride is a wonderful invention.

A Welsh dragon flag was draped around the shoulders of the one lad in front, as I observed that most other people on the bus, were also wearing distinctive red Welsh rugby jerseys; the countdown had begun and it was only 10 o’clock.

I made a bee-line for the nearest bookshop – well, it was a natural reaction once in Cardiff; just how many times over the years had I followed my dad, with my brother in toe. This time it was different though, as I would not be able to tell my dad about where I had gone.

Rocking-up in a burger bar I got tea and made it as strong as possible whilst hoping that the door was kept shut – despite it being dry – for once; it was still bitterly cold. Relevant bits of newspaper read and then to tackle the crossword; my usual Saturday morning routine, whilst trying to stay off ‘Twitter’. It was after-all League game number 24. The 30 – year quest was still very much on.

A good look in ‘Waterstones’ and lo and behold, what was this, a book on ‘Mo Salah’ and one that had gone under my radar. It took me all of the time it took for Wales to fling a pass out to the wing, to score a try, for me to decide to ‘get it’. Another one to add to my two hundred plus Liverpool collection.

By now there were crowds of people all heading in the one direction, towards the impressive castle and of course stopping in the many pubs, ever so conveniently situated en-route, towards the magnificent stadium, which I still look at in equal amount of pleasure and pride, which sits in the middle of the city centre like a beacon to all things Welsh.

An amble through the market and un-decided as to what to do about food. Those Welsh cakes smelt lush though, no wonder there was an ever – increasing queue to get them, just like the three red jerseys would be crying out for a pass to the side, in the later stages of the game.

I went upstairs; recalling the last time I was there with dad, in his favourite city, as we had sat down, over-looking the floor level, with our tea. I was so glad we had gone there then; when his favourite shop of all-time ‘Ian Allen’, had closed its doors; as my loving ex would say, ‘You can’t’ put a price on that And’. Exactly.

So, I got a tea and was told that I had to wait an hour for hot food! That just proved how busy Cardiff can get due to the rugby. Local business people must rub their hands with glee every time there is a match. The attractive girl though must have liked me as she bent the rules and swiftly lobbed my pasty into the micro and before you could say, ‘ping’; I had hot food. I gave her a flirty wink in acknowledgement and sat down. Like so many other times I turned, quite literally, to a book for company, not needing anyone. Quickly I was with Mo Salah; following his story about how he had to catch not one but three buses to just train, every day. Now that is dedication. It paid off though, as his talent shone through; he is now one of the major reasons behind any Liverpool success since he came to Anfield in 2017. I felt happy to just sit there and read, whilst eating a very lush pasty and eking out my cold tea (which I can drink, so I have found). I had a book and I had Liverpool – what more did I want? Oh, I also took a look at my treasured match ticket and sussed that I had to go to Bute Park to get in – ‘Liverpool’s end’ I said. That had to be a good omen.

Down the little alley way, from one world to another, just like in Brighton, and from the shops there was ‘The City Arms’ pub and I smiled, recalling the pints going up in the air when Stevie G scored that 40 – yard block-buster against West Ham. I got a programme as a souvenir– though I did not pretend to know too much about its contents.  

Nearly everyone was in red but there was a smattering of beautiful blue as people went in the opposite direction to me but it was good timing though, as before my very eyes a big red coach passed slowly by. It was only the Welsh team! Lots of clapping and cheering. And why not, as they were the Champions and Grand Slam winners; though that would mean squat now; if they were to do well again. I looked at the players and I have to say, I didn’t recognise them. They hardly looked back though and certainly I did not see them wave. A tad disappointed if truth be told, in my best ‘Nessa’ voice. I just hoped they did the business – that’s all that would matter. Rugby you see is a religion in Wales. End of.

I found Gate 1. If you ever go there – wrap-up warm! The icy cold wind whips off the River Taff which is underneath the planks there, as though we were on the edge of a wooden ship. I was grateful I had not two but four layers on and had my hoody top up. I felt sorry for the girls there who only had flimsy dresses on and a coat. ‘Brrrr’.

No matter from what angle you look at that space age stadium, I still marvel at it. So impressive. After about a twenty-minute wait with my Lidl bag being searched and doing the ‘Hokey-Kokey’ as I had to turn around – and that’s what it’s all about, these days, going into a stadium; I was flashing my prized, precious ticket, at a luminous orange chap. Once inside, amidst the smell of onions and hot-dogs I just could not help but take a peek at the perfect pitch. It looked fabulous. All lush green with those white lines and the tall posts which reached for the sky, and I loved it that the roof was closed. It reminded me of ‘Millennium night’ when we had been there.

This was more like it.

‘It’s my first day’ the good- looking blond steward said to me, smiling, after she told me correctly where my seat was. How friendly, as I walked-up the few flighted steps towards rugby heaven.

The view took my breath away. It was just fantastic. Awesome. I was right in front of the posts. Could not have been bettered. Could look right down on the try line. I had been lucky enough to have been there before – as I could see Michael Owen, in his gold shirt, running away to my right, after he scored not one, but two goals to steal the FA Cup from Arsenal. That was another good omen.

Click, click, click. On my phone, on my digital camera, all over. As though I wanted to capture the scene forever. It was even more of an awesome stadium. It’s so much better being there than watching it on the tele and shouting at the screen!

The players were warming-up and Wales were down at the far end as the band began to go past, led by their goat mascot. Their red uniforms resplendent. It was all part of the experience as much as queuing -up to go to the toilet.

The choir started singing and not just Welsh ballads either like ‘Calon Lan’ and ‘Cwm Rhonda’ but also Italian ones – a great touch; ‘Just one cornetto’ – not on a cold day like this one! Soon, Sam to my surprise, came and I immediately felt better. It was Sam who had very kindly offered me this fabulous ticket and I had accepted without even thinking. I love live sport and I love Wales. What was there to think about?

‘It’s awesome Sam’ I said enthusing about the view. He was beaming and being a proper, pucker, rugby man was also really appreciative of the view. It was his venue but we did find that we had both been in the stadium watching the football a few years ago when Wales had beaten Italy, 2-1 in an un-forgettable, knee-knocking Euro Qualification game.

This time I felt Wales would win. No worries. So long as they were not complacent. That’s about as much as I knew. Though I did of course recognise Leigh Halfpenny, with a white number 15 on his red jersey and Alan Wyn Jones – with tape over his ears. There were no airs or graces about these fellas. Legends and also Dan Bigger – who I recall kicking well years ago against France away, when Wales won.  Now, that’s not bad considering football is my sport! As for the rest I knew a few of the names but could not put faces to them. They were Wales – that’s all that counted.

No matter where I am, no matter what form it takes, even a few whistling bars, always my hairs stand up straight just listening to the national anthem ‘Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau’ which can reduce me to tears way before the end as I am always holding back my emotion and it was no different in this stadium, with over 65,000 Welsh people alongside me. Fantastic (even as I write this, I have played it on You-tube and fought back the tears).

I wondered what it was like to turn-out at a local park, in the mud, in the wet and freezing cold for the Welsh players as they were trying to make it at grass roots level – surely the heart and soul of real rugby; so different from all the razzamatazz inside the stadium; which included fireworks and flames.

Wales took about five to minutes to get going. Then they picked-up points whenever they could. Dan Biggar slotted three penalties, right before our very eyes and after everyone, I shouted ‘Yes’ as though a goal had been scored.

It was great being beside Sam as at every turn he would say something about what was happening. I did not need a commentator – just Sam.

Wales were cornering Italy. When they tried to run, especially through their smallish number 15 (Matteo Minozzi), they would get tackled and Wales would hit them on the counter. When Italy got frustrated, they kicked the ball and Leigh Halfpenny would just say, ‘Thank you’ and kick it back and at one stage, gallop through and catch his own kick. What a brave player. Italy were stumped.

The surprising thing was that it took Wales so long to score their first try. A move which developed to the right of me, passing in hand and then one of our fellas flung himself and the ball over the line. ‘Happy days’, Sam said, with a grin as wide as the stadium roof. It was just great to see and be there.

Try – ‘It’s not unusual to be loved by any-one, it’s not unusual to have fun with anyone’ as Tom Jones blared out in celebration.

That was it. Excellent. Those people whom I had expectantly seen with ‘TRY’ placards in the queue, now had the chance, to be on the tele, as they no doubt held them up.

I couldn’t believe it though that the ‘TMO’ or ‘VAR’ as I said to Sam, was checking it (Of course it was a try – Wales were at home!).

By half-time, which I guess could not have come quick enough for the Italians, Wales had scored another try in the same corner and were romping 20 points or so ahead. The points were in the bag and it was just a case of how many the home team wanted to score.

I was aware that it was a quarter of an hour from kick-off at Anfield and that no doubt Davie and Dean were ready in Davie’s house, sweets in the bowl, having got a stream for Liverpool’s game against Southampton. Nine and half times out of ten I would be with them – this was the very grateful exceptional ‘half’.

Italy did try and make a game of it in the second half as I also sportingly applauded when they threw the ball out to another man, like they had in the first half, backwards to a teammate – a neat piece of skill that was appreciated by all the crowd.

On the odd occasion there was an Italian sounding musical instrument which struck a chord with the fans and was heartily cheered. It was almost like I was watching a theatrical – operatic performance; a lovely atmosphere broken by the Welsh team running down the middle of the Italian defence which retreated, which led to another Welsh try – this time under the posts.  

Wales had a try chalked off by the ‘TMO’ (television match official) for what I don’t know, after a great flowing move, started to my right, on the half-way line. The white shirted ref had initially let play go on and Sam said, ‘Deffo try’, as he nipped to the loo.  

‘They could give them a right hammering here’ I said to Sam and he agreed. I felt that Wales could make a statement and possibly pick-up a crucial bonus point as well, for scoring four or more tries.

However, I had by now set my heart on events at Anfield. Always, always, from when I was about seven, no matter where I am, or what I am doing – my heart beats to the tune Liverpool set. It was just as well then that I could not get a connection with my net – the closed roof was seeing to that but my phone vibrated and immediately on edge, I received a distressing text from Deano, informing me that Liverpool were in ‘holiday mode’ and playing ‘crap versus Southampton’. I was not happy.

‘I hope he fires some ffs, into them’ I shot back, imagining Liverpool’s manager, Jurgen Klopp, ranting in the dressing room at his complacent players. I know I would have, as I was almost seething, sitting there in the Millennium.

Wales converted between the posts and finished-up, as I had text Deano, deservedly 40 points up. It could have been more but I settled for that. I shook Sam’s hand, said, ‘Thanks mate’ and hoped that I would be able to see Wales in the flesh again, as I quickly decided to get back. Past the castle, through the long pedestrianised street, walking at pace, whilst urging the reds on, before reaching Sainsbury’s on the corner, then gratefully seeing the ‘X59’.

I just about made the last available seat on the top deck. That’s the beauty of Cardiff. The stadium is so central. The transport links are fantastic and I had made great time. Then a quick heart-beating pulse of my phone, which could have meant anything.

‘Ox 1-0’.

With people all around me I just let out a loud ‘Yeahs!!!’ straight from the heart. I really, did not care what anyone else thought. Liverpool were ahead. That’s all that mattered.

Then there was another pulse, as I clocked the time, about half four.

‘3-0 hendo mo’.

‘YEAHS!!!!’

I shouted out again, in my own loving Liverpool bubble because I just knew that no-one on the bus could have been feeling like I was in those heart racing, pulse pounding moments. I was joyously nervous, as Liverpool were doing their best to bridge the gap after so many years.

When I reached the Park & Ride car park, I saw that Liverpool had scored again, another from Mo Salah – in the 90^th minute. It was surely just not happening. Un-real. Truly incredible. I was over-joyed.

What a day; I had seen Wales win and had lived heart and soul through another Liverpool win; as my dad might have said, ‘How lucky can you get?’…

Maybe ‘The fat lady’ is thinking not only about singing but also putting on her red dress and red shoes but also perhaps a red silky scarf…

2/2/2020 2739 A. Phillips

Red Lippy

West Ham Utd v Liverpool

Wednesday, 29^th of January, 2020.

It was just that I wanted to be there, if and when Liverpool won this game. With my other ‘family’.

Davie answered the door and soon Fudge followed – more smooths and a cwtch; well, how could I refuse; she was everyone’s dog but Davie was her master.

I thought that I heard, just for an instant a female voice and no, it was not any of the three girls – but, but Carly’s, Davie’s wife’s voice.

Davie tried to convince me otherwise.

‘No, Carly’s not here’ he said, trying not to lie, or in Carly’s words, talk!

I scanned the table. There were four cups there. Like in a nursery rhyme, one for Deano, one for me, one for Davie and, and, well.

‘There’s four cups Davie, so Carly is here’.

‘Well observed inspector Crouch’, Deano said as Carly emerged from the kitchen. The gang was all here.

I did not fail to glance at the mound of sweets in the bowl too. ‘I did not get any’, I expressed sadly.

‘Don’t worry Crouch, we just got these from over the shop’ as I looked down enviously.

So, we caught-up and I told Carly that I had been heading for the bank on Monday morning, when she and her half-sister Lauren had been, ‘Going to the gym’ with their dad – a Manc.

‘Did I tell you where I am going in September?’, Deano said, looking straight faced as Alisson facing a free-kick.

‘Pearl, Har-bour’ I replied, thinking about that hulk of a rusting battleship which is still there after the surprise attack in December 1941, which was as quick as a Liverpool counter.

So, to the Liverpool team. The usual back-five which if I starred long and hard enough at my key-board – it should by now, type the reds line-up itself. Alisson in goals, Trent Alexander-Arnold and Andy Robertson at left-back. Gini Wijnaldum, captain Jordan Henderson and Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain. With no Sadio Mane to call on due to a hamstring and hopefully back after the International Break, Divock Origi was paired with Bobby Firmino and Mo Salah.

West Ham were managed by David Moyes. Well, we all knew how he would set them-up, think of a double decker and double it so it made one of those bendy, stretchy buses which are prevalent on the continent. They were without Antonio and to be fair, I was not interested in them – so long as our collective team effort kept them out then that’s all I was worried about. Believe me though, I was a tad nervous – especially as we’d dropped vital points here last season; which cost us in the end.

All white top with black shorts. Just like in the 1980’s. Love it. And we were passing the ball ala that vintage too. But us being greedy and spoilt now, wanted it to go forward quicker and more effectively.

‘We need to get behind them’ I said and as though the lads heard us, Andy Robertson powered down the wing and put in an inviting cross which was missed. It was the way forward.

The commentator said about ‘The Ox’ having scored there for Arsenal. ‘And he did for Liverpool’, I pipped-up, having discovered by now that young baby Kelsey had sneaked behind the sofa, and sprung-up like a Jackie – in – the box, as soon as I saw her mop of golden hair.

Love her cotton socks.

Andy Robertson again got free after some more quick, slick passing and whipped in a ‘please score me’ ball which Origi missed at Fabianski’s right near post and also eluded Mo Salah.

‘We should have scored then!’ Deano said, exasperated.

Robertson then got put in by Mo Salah, after an intricate passing move but just failed to find the left bottom corner of Fabianski’s goal – this was more like it.

Liverpool, as it often has been the case this season, had grown into the game and moved up a few notches. They tigerishly began fighting for the ball higher-up the pitch and from this, Origi got fouled from near the six-yard box.

‘Pen-alt-tee!’ Deano bellowed, then added, ‘but hang on, let’s wait for VAR!’. How terrible, as it spoilt the moment but we can’t really complain this season.

It had to be Mo Salah to take it – though I did think about Bobby or Hendo. I was desperate for him to score, desperate for Liverpool to win – desperate for the – at this moment in time there seems to be a problem with my keyboard as it has refused me permission to write the ‘t’ word (no that’s enough, it just said!!!).

Mo Salah smashed home the spot-kick, putting it to Fabianski’s right.

‘YES! YES!’ I shouted, raising both arms aloft, as though I was lifting something shiny (now Andrew, I’m not going to tell you again, my keyboard just warned me, in my late father’s sternest voice!).

One nil up. The breakthrough. Tidy.

At one stage four players hounded the one West Ham player on the edge of his area.

‘That’s what I love to see!’ I shouted as Kelsey expressed her desire that I turn my volume down!

The home team had half chances but there was always Virgil van Dijk and the equally impervious Joe Gomes to snuff out any danger and of course Alisson.

At the break we were treated to not only a lovely cuppa made by Carly, God it was needed, but also Birthday Cake. Victoria sponge – it was lush! You see it was Davie’s 21^st the day after! No, I can never recall how old he is – suffice to say at least ten years older than me; my range went from 32 to 38 for him. He liked the lower figure!

‘Thirty-eight Crouch’ he admitted. He didn’t look a day over 22!

Carly was going to treat him to a meal, ‘And maybe use your vouchers Crouch’ she suggested. It would be a change ‘just the two’ of them going out – without the kids. ‘Then maybe a drink on Saturday night’ – so that was something to look forward to.

Liverpool kept control. A strangle-hold but on rare occasions the Hammers attacked and they may as well have because Alisson kept the scoreline down to nil as he made two-point blank stops as Trent somehow managed to hit his right post and the ball rebounded out to Van Dijk to gratefully clear.

In between this though, Liverpool caught the home team with a sucker-punch. Blowing their bubbles right in the air.

From a West Ham attack, on the edge of the reds area, the ball was looped over the top, by Henderson if my memory serves me correctly and then Mo Salah was on it in a flash and with a delicious ball served it on a plate (which the finest five star chefs could not have conjured-up), as Mo flicked the ball with the outside of his left boot to send Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain arrowing in on goal, where he finished low and hard, into the bottom right of Fabianski’s goal.

More celebrations.

‘Done and Dusted’, Deano said.

Quick as a flash I replied, ‘That’s what you said Sunday and looked what happened!’.

‘He’s in my dream team’ Deano beamed, as again, with Carly already warning me, I flashed a middle finger at him and Davie but let Carly off with a verbal warning!

‘There’s only one team – LIVERPOOL!’ I shouted at them for the umpteenth time!

Liverpool should have scored more as I recall Bobby Firmino jigging his way through but not finding any end product as Liverpool toyed with the home team. They just seem to have a knack of slowing it down and going at their own pace and we later discussed this.

‘We will have to stop shouting and accept it. That this is the way they play now’. Too true Deano.

Curtis Jones came on and it was very heartening to see. I just feel that he is going to be more than a bit part player in less than a few years.

Kaitlyn, the middle girl had made an appearance and she was worried that she would get that virus which is spreading from China. What was she like!

‘It’s just a head cold’, Carly said, as Kaitlyn had wrapped herself-up in a wool-like top. Kids – who’d have them…

‘We’re champions of the world’ sang the travelling fans as some even dared to sing the other ditty which Deano pointed out to me.

‘Look Crouch, you’re not telling them off!’ whilst inwardly I was lapping it up but did not dare openly say it.

The fat lady, with the red dress and shoes, who could be asked to sing, is now maybe, just maybe, perhaps putting on her red lippy.  

30/1/20. Andy C Legs 1474

The Gravy Train

Shrewsbury v Liverpool

FA Cup Fourth Round

26th of January, 2020.

I text Dave saying that I would maybe not be able to make it to watch the match with them and it was just as well.

Thank goodness for BBC, as the game was due to be shown live by them.

‘Can I have some more gravy please’ I asked the waitress, as I wanted to cover the half plate size home-made Yorkshire.

‘Me too’ pipped-up, Alan, my brother, adding, ‘well they did say, with lashings of gravy on the menu’.

It was a meal we were always going to go to and it seemed apt really, as my dad liked his food – a step-up from Morrisons where we had often gone, this time to a tidy place in Newport, off Cardiff Road instead.

Me and Alan, in our dad’s voice, could almost have said to Sheila, my dad’s late fiancee and her son Simon, ‘Have what you want’. Quite.

I didn’t look at my phone, so was not aware of the time but when the dessert menu came out, I had flicked a glance at Alan’s watch; there was an hour to kick-off.

Alan had fancied ice-cream but it was me who had the three flavoured ones and he ended-up with Eton Mess and it did look a state as well!

It was enjoyable and Sheila and Simon both stressed that we were and would always be a part of the family and welcome anytime. Lovely words. Dad would have been smiling from up on high.

Alan made it to mine with enough time to spare for me to make a cuppa and have some ‘After Eights’ by the side of me which I scoffed quickly – even after all that food! Greedy git!

No Davie, Deano, Carly, girls or Fudgy, it was old school watching Liverpool on my tod.

The Liverpool team for this FA Cup 4th Round tie against Shrewsbury, who sit 16^th in League Division One, was pretty much as I expected. Adrian in goal, Larouci at left back, Neco Williams at right back with a returning Joel Matip and Dejan Lovren – made captain, at centre half. In midfield was the rusty Fabinho, Curtis Jones and Pedro Chirivella. The front three consisted of Harvey Elliott – at 16 barely out of his nappies, Divock Origi and Minamino.

Shrewsbury, managed by former Swansea and Wales full back, Sam Ricketts, were a mystery to me. Everyone knew though that whatever 11 they put out; they would give everything.

Liverpool looked assured and passed the ball around as though it was a practice match. The all blue home team could hardly lay a glove on them.

It didn’t take long; the first goal.

A ball which cut into the defence, from the middle by Chirivella, and helped on by Minamino, found a galloping Jones who finished with the inside of his left foot, sweeping the ball past the left of O’Leary on its way in.

1-0 to the reds.

‘Yes!’ I shouted off course, sat on my own brown sofa now, having talked to the TV with the usual comments, as though the others were with me.

You would have thought that the reds had the job done. However, the home side soon had Adrian scrambling to save with an outstretched right hand.

It was a warning.

I can’t recall another reds effort as the home team took a grip on the game, if not the tie. They cranked-up the pressure and should have equalised before the break.

‘Tea Dai?’ I spoke out loud, as though in the Wheatstone mansion! This time I had to make it!

I busied myself and before I knew it, the game was back on as I had muted the TV – not interested in what the pundits had to say.

In the nick of time I looked-up and to my utter surprise, the home team had scored an own-goal, as the right back, Love, totally took his eye off the ball as it ghosted into the right of O’Leary’s net…

It was 2-0.

The scoreline was harsh on Shrewsbury.

‘Done and dusted’ Dean text.

‘Providing we don’t cock-up at the back’ I cautiously replied.

It was the kiss of death.

Shrewsbury were first to every ball. Fabinho was second. He wasn’t the only one though. The kids were doing well and the standout player for me was Curtis Jones – so assured on the ball and rarely gave possession away.

The home team brought Cummings on, ‘the Joker in the pack’ they called him. The joke was on Liverpool though; as they continued to be Bob Paisleys dreaded ‘c’ word – ‘complacent’.

All of a sudden, Cummings got in in goal, on the edge of the area and just as I had warned, could have shouted down the phone – like a line from a Stereophonics track, he got fouled.

Pen-al-tee!

As they showed the replay, I could have sworn the tackle was outside the area. No VAR, no second opinion.

The ball went to Adrian’s right.

Goal!

Game on, 1-2. Now the Beeb had the cup tie that they had wanted and didn’t they just love it.

It was all Shrewsbury. Only one team was going to score next.

The big guns were warning-up in the form of Mo Salah and Bobby Firmino. Klopp had stated that he did not want a replay.

Well, thanks to more shambolic defending from Lovren and to a lesser extent, Williams, Klopp got the replay, as Connelly went through and slotted a lovely low strike past the left of Adrian to make it 2-2.

I was not even shouting or near to tears – I just an air of inevitability and acceptance. Liverpool had been second best, sat back and had paid the price.

Hopefully it taught them a lesson – ‘Don’t be complacent’.

‘Shambolic’ Dean text. Quite.

Every red worth his salt knew that Shrewsbury should have won, as it is, for their sterling effort, they will go to Anfield in the replay, earn pots of cash and board the gravy train.

27/1/20

1021

A. Phillips.

‘Come Back to Us’

‘1917’

A Review

21^st of January, 2020.

Tom lay in the arms of his friend, Will, bleeding, dying, having been stabbed by the German pilot.  

This was a dramatic scene in this film as much as Will climbing out of the trench whilst all around him men were running towards the enemy. This was one reason why this film had to be seen in a cinema – to get the scale; to get the feel that, I was there.

The opening scene saw two soldiers, Tom (Dean-Charles Chapman) and Will (George Mackay) laying down, resting, looking over fresh green and yellow countryside. Idyllic, un-spoilt by war. It could not last.

It was the 6^th of April, 1917, and the soldiers were summoned to the Front Line to see a General Erinmore (played by Colin Firth). We followed their journey and the general told them that their mission was to go to the front and give a letter to a colonel to ‘STOP’ a planned attack. There was a personnel interest for Tom, as his brother was in the battalion which was due to attack the Germans.

Very soon, all within a minute it seemed, we passed through trenches with British Tommies standing guard or trying to sleep or write letters home, until the two men reached the front line. Very soon they were making a giant leap of faith, by going over the top, into ‘No Man’s Land’.

Snaring his hand on barbed wire, Will looked aghast at then having to put his hand into a corpse which lay in one of the many shell-holes which pock-marked the lunar like landscape. It was nothing short of what hell must look like. Trees, debris, bodies in and out of water and an old knocked out tank and dead horses with flies swarming all around.

Yes, we were right there, bar the stench.

Eventually, they reached the German line. They were pleasantly surprised though to find that it had indeed been seemingly abandoned as the General had informed them – as the Germans had made a tactical withdrawal to shorten their line. They were soon shocked to discover though, just how deep the trenches were, not to mention comfortable and bomb and bullet proof – and it was appropriate that one of the lads quipped, ‘Even their rats are bigger than ours!’.

‘Bang!’

 There was an almighty crash as the dugout imploded, as one of the rats – which looked the size of a cat, ran over a booby trap wire and almost entombed the two ‘Tommies’. Luckily though, despite Will temporarily losing his sight, they scrambled clear.

‘Why did you pick me?’ to go with him, Will asked Tom soon after; why indeed?

And so, to the farmhouse and the dog-fight they witnessed in the sky, at a safe distance, or so it seemed, until that is the German plane came crashing down towards them and caught alight in a barn, only a few feet away. They ran to humanely rescue the pilot and managed to drag him out of the plane which now blew-up in the background. As Will went to get water, Tom, trying to tend to the German’s wounds, got stabbed by the German, who Will shot dead.

However, this is where I took-up the story, with Tom, dying. We all knew it; as dark red blood oozed un-controllably, out of his body, like a dam. He mercifully soon passed away.

We could have heard a piece of grass drop.

Despite his grief, Will soon had to ‘come to’ as a captain Smith (Mark Strong), who appeared out of the blue, called him to order. Will took a place in the back of a crowded lorry which soon hit a rut and Will soon had the men ‘onside’ as he urged them to push the lorry out of trouble, as he told them later that he had orders from the general to stop an attack – at dawn.

Then Will had to go it alone when a bridge had been blown, in the planned German retreat, as he tip-toed, like a trapeze artist over its fallen girder top before being shot at from the other side. Surmounting all the courage he could muster, he managed to fire back and then kill the German, who had been sniping at him, from a tower but not before Will was rocked back by an explosion. He was in the wars again, as he sustained a wound to the back of his head.

Will passed out and from this point for a while the film I felt lost its way a bit I felt and did not grip me so much. Ok, I guess Will had to reach the front-line somehow and after going through a town, being pursued by Germans, he also met a French girl who tended to his wounds and she offered him a dream like prospect to stay with her and an abandoned baby. All very commendable and after this interlude, Will almost drowned in a fast-flowing river before being jolted back to consciousness and getting out of the river by climbing over bloated, floated, dead bodies…

He presently, came upon a group of ‘Tommies’, listening to a man beautifully singing amongst some trees and no wonder he slumped down against a tree, after his recent ordeal. As it was morning he realized, I’m guessing, that it was too late to see the Colonel MacKensie, as the attack must surely have ‘gone-in’.

However, he was informed that the ‘Devon’s’ were still around, and that some of them, including the colonel he was looking for, had not gone ‘over-the-top’, just yet. There was still time.

Will ran as fast as he could with men walking to the line in support trenches and then reaching the front line, which was being bombarded at an alarmingly increasing intense rate, as was evidenced by an officer being speechless – frozen in fear, as explosions banged all around.

Will frantically ran, so much so that it was at this, in desperation to not only save the possible lives of 1,600 men but also Tom’s brother’s life, that Will opted to climb out on a limb, during an attack, into ‘No Man’s Land’. Somehow, he survived and even then, was nearly pipped at the post by two sentries, barring the way to the Colonel’s dugout.

However, Will was not to be daunted, again, as with his uniform in tatters, his head and hands having bleed and having cried almost un-controllably at everything that had been thrown at him along the way, he found that, to his dismay, Colonel MacKenzie (Benedict Cumberbatch) refused to believe that he should stop the attack, which was now only moments away.

Will though was un-daunted and shoved the letter from the general, into the colonel’s face and finally the colonel read the letter.

‘Ok, Major’ the colonel paused, as the seconds ticked down like a hammer on an anvil, as we waited to hear, with a heavy beating heart, what was going to come next.

‘Stand the men down’…

Will had at last carried out his mission and then had the un-enviable task of hunting down Tom’s brother, which he eventually did.

‘Where is Tom?’ his older brother asked before it dawned on him what had happed to his younger brother; before somehow managing to hold back the tears.

It was touchingly sad.

At the end, Will sat under a tree and took out the precious photos of his wife and children.

On the reverse side of one of the photos there was a simple message;

‘Come back to us’

21/1/20

1269

A.Phillips

Jelly Babies

Wolves v Liverpool

23^rd January, 2020.

I parked the car almost adjacent to Davie and Carly’s house but do you know what; I was almost tempted to park it down the road, on the right, by the speed bump – just in case, just in case I jinxed Liverpool’s incredible un-beaten start.

Davie greeted me and I said, ‘Where’s Fudge?’ as she always barked; she must have heard me because no soon had I said it than there she was, that big old white/ brown coloured dog with paws as big as my hands.

I wrapped my hands around her soft fury head as it lay in my arms, looking down at her gob-stopper brown eyes and I smoothed her for at least a minute – one-to-one quality time. Davie called and whistled; off she went, leading me to the living room.

‘I haven’t got a good feeling about this tonight’, Dean said, looking smart as hell in that white away top – it makes me think that just for a long change, that I’d invest in one, as well as the half a dozen of the books on ‘Number Six’ I’ve got – I couldn’t resist!

Davie quickly made the tea as he happily poured the sweets I’d bought into the bowl. The soft refresher ones – found in Aldi as it goes, how convenient, especially as I’d dropped my mum off and done my weekly shop there, whilst also fitting in a visit to my mortgage company – ‘making the most of my minutes’ as an ex was oft to say.

There was no boisterous talk of the ‘t’ word which I shout at the boys for even daring to utter, as we caught-up and we discovered that Deano had booked yet another trip to the ‘states’ – for next September. Somewhere different on the agenda for him though, as he showed me a sweeping beach with stunning blue clear sea – somewhere in Hawaii. I thought ‘great’ but my ears really pricked-up – as though hearing Man City had dropped points, as he told me he was going to go to ‘Pearl Harbour’.

‘Take plenty of photos’ I urged him – as we are both well into our war history. In fact, I had supposed to have seen ‘1917’ with him earlier in the week but Deano had sheepishly text me that he ‘Can’t wait’ so downloaded it. ‘I still love you’ I replied as I just knew I had to go it alone to the flicks to see it on the big screen. It was worth it – as I felt I was there in the middle of the trenches.

Wolves – dodgy, dodgy, dodgy with a capital ‘D’ for good measure. I had even taken note of some of their players, suggesting that we get ‘Jimenez’ their tall forward and of course ‘Traore’ – no, not the one who scored an own goal at Burnley which was his glory, as in our old song, but the battleship like winger who could weave his way like a corvette. He would again be the one to watch.

My heart had skipped a beat when I had read that Virgil van Djke may have been missing – it will happen one day and Liverpool better be prepared, however I was relieved when the boys told me that he was playing.

‘Crouch’ said Davie, ‘don’t go running to the kitchen this time, then’, as I told them that I had woken-up with a bruise like pain in my lower back!! I had been able to live with it the whole day in work and the last thing I wanted was, for the reds to give me a separate pain in the a**e!

Liverpool, amongst the darkened stadium and stage-managed light show lined-up in a roster which has become as familiar as finding your way home; as Alisson was in goals, Trent Alexander-Arnold and Andy Robertson were the wing-backs. Virgil van Djke and Joe Gomez were the rocks at the back. Jordan Henderson – the ever-increasing driving skipper was in the middle along with Gini ‘the dynamo’ Wijnaldum and Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain. The terrorising triplets were up top in the form of Mo Salah, Sadio Mane and Bobby (who’s not scored at Anfield all season – who cares?) Firmino.

‘Come on reds!’ I roared.

‘I bet we will be slagging them off in twenty minutes!’ Davie said.

‘We’ve become spoilt’ Dean said. Quite.

The thing is, as I again can hear my late dad’s voice as I type this, we just know that Liverpool can blitz teams, tear them-up in a devastating spell, almost on a whim, ala United and when we don’t get this, we are not happy – like spoilt kids (unlike Davie/Carly’s three girls who we actually seen during the course of the match, as they came down from eternal evening hibernation in their rooms).

The reds began to find their feet. We observed that it usually takes a short while for them to feel their way into games and then – bang!

A corner on the Wolves left and the ball was in Patricio’s top left-hand corner, via a powerful header, from, from, well, Jordan Henderson of all people! He had somehow made a stealth bomber like run and the ball seemed to come off the top of his shoulder. VAR took a peek but allowed the goal.

Liverpool were ahead.

‘Keep a clean sheet now, and we’ve won’ – Dean said.

Liverpool kept control of the ball. Passing inch perfectly – as Davie observed. Just about getting to the ball in the nick of time, getting a toe end to it and controlling it. The confidence was just oozing out of them. If they were a cat – they would have been purring.

How many clear-cut chances did they have – a few. We cursed – Mo Salah mainly as he went through one-on-one and yet again failed to hit the target. The game could have been so much more comfortable and put to bed by Mo all on his own. You can’t change him though – he’s a genius.

Wolves sensed there was a chance as they kept trying to play down the channel and through Liverpool’s high line. They should have equalised and for better quality finishing may have gone in at the break level.

‘That flew by’, Deano said as we dived into more sweets – with me also having got ‘Jelly Babies’ – Doctor Who’s -Tom Baker’s favs.

There was a real concern though for the reds as Sadio Mane – a candidate for not only our player of the season but surely Footballer of the Year, had just stopped and gone down. Then he had got back-up as the home crowd had a go at him, then back down again.

‘He’s f**ked’, Deano gravely observed. It was bad news and they did not expand on it at the break – a bad sign. Takumi Minamino had come on – not as we suggested, Divock Origi. To be fair, he looked a bit lost but showed one or two good touches.

Davie asked about what ‘Orthodontist’ means as baby Kelsey, sporting an apt all-red ‘onsey’, was going to have to have a job done on her teeth in the not too distant future and as soon as she found out that it was a brace then the oldest, Kayla, wanted one as well. Kids – what are they like?

Wolves came out at the start of the second half and we all looked at each other, as though just knowing what was on the cards. It would not have taken the genius that was Alan Turing, the Enigma code-breaker, to fore-see what came next, as Liverpool were second best to every ball and being run ragged by Traore and company; especially as he time and again, beat ‘Braveheart’ Andy Robertson.

Traore crossed the ball over and for once, Joe Gomez or Virgil van Djke could not conjure-up a majestic interception, as that man Jimenez, planted his header into the right of the all bright green Alisson to make-it 1-1.

‘The next five minutes is crucial’, Deano said, all tense like. He was right.

Liverpool could not get a grip. All the control they’d had was gone. Traore was running them ragged.

‘We’ll have to buy him so he doesn’t do this to us again’, Davie suggested as Robertson and even Henderson, bounced off him. ‘Is he English?’ Davie said.

‘If he was, they’d want to call him up’ Deano replied with more than a grain of truth.

We just knew we would be lucky not to lose the game.

‘I’d take a draw now’ I had said worryingly at one stage. Wolves were that dangerous.

Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain went off and he can have no complaints. We had not been impressed with him as Deano had slated him for not passing as good as he could have.

‘Never mind’ Dean tutted as Fabinho came on. Not a bad sub to call on.

However, Liverpool weathered the storm – not exactly trough the wind and rain, but certainly by keeping the hungry gold Wolves at bay, from their larder like net.

Bobby Firmino got in the clear, after an intricate move and, and, well, could only shoot straight at Patricio, with the goal at his mercy.

‘That was an open-goal!’ Deano gasped, his blood boiling like a mini Mount Etna.

By now Carly was home. She made a cuppa and we told her that we had been ‘crap’ but had had chances. Presently she sat down next to me on the sofa and told me about how beneficial the green tea was that she had suddenly started drinking.

‘It’s got anti-oxidants in it Crouch’ she said as I recalled smelling it many times a few years back, when Liverpool had mounted their last challenge on the un-mentionable ‘T’ word.

Mo Salah, found himself just inside the area. Back to goal and he somehow rolled the ball forward with a piece of dazzling skill which only he can produce, as he beat two players. Henderson, who had been again leading the fight to stay in the game, saw the gap and as Mo laid the ball back to Hendo, the skipper played the ball forward into Bobby Firmino’s path. Somehow, don’t ask me to describe it, Bobby, with a band of gold’s around him, viciously fired home into Patricio’s right-hand side.

I just could not help but cwtch Carly in celebration as I just dare not leap off the sofa, for fear of hurting myself and just in case, as Davie said, VAR intervened.

It was majestic. Over and over they showed the goal as we heard the reds fans singing Bobby’s beautiful soulful song which every red is addicted to as much as wanting to talk endlessly this team of mentality monsters which never give-up and which never settle for a draw.

‘Massive. A massive win!’ Deano said.

‘That’s the hardest game we’ve had’ I suggested and it was – no wonder we were all excited; now.

Before I left, I dipped into the sweet bowl, there were no refreshers left – only Jelly Babies.

24/1/20 1843

‘Red Shoes’

Liverpool v Manchester United

19^th of January, 2020.

I lay on the sofa, in my best ‘Uncle Albert’ voice, reading about ‘the war’, just trying to keep calm – before the storm.

Within minutes, Davie greeted me at his and Carly’s front door. He had a fillip.

‘Leicester lost 2-1 to Burnley’.

Excellent.

‘Alright Kels’ I said, and repeated my greeting, but 7 – year-old baby Kelsey was oblivious to me, just as I am to anyone suggesting that a certain team (in red) are going to win a certain trophy. Kelsey you see was engrossed in a game on her mobile – what would we do without them!

Sweets in the bowl already and waiting but there was no Carly – who had only, in my mum’s Welsh voice, ‘now jest, left for work’ – that was a shame.

I gave Davie his 21^st (hahaha) birthday card for sometime soon and within a second of me sitting down, Dean announced the unsayable ‘ If we win this today – that should be it’.

It was like a red rag to a bull.

‘No. no, no’ I protested, trying to shout him and Davie down – to no avail.

‘Why, don’t you believe in this team?’ Deano asked.

‘Of course I do’ I replied, ‘but I won’t believe it’s over until the fat lady sings’.

‘I can’t remember the last time we won it’ Davie said, chomping on the soft wine gum like sweets, as I asked him how old he was, because I can never remember!

‘38’ he replied, as he recalled having the home top with the flecks on it, with me recalling having the same top for my birthday in that March, 1990 and consequently wearing it on every subsequent visit to the Kop that season.

‘My first one was with the yellow Liver Bird on it’, the simple design one, I thought ‘and I must’ve been about 8 or 9’ I continued. It was a lush top – Nike take note.

The teams were soon out and the hairs went up as that song, our song, ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ was boomed out with Deano having said that the fans had greeted the coaches – too right I thought, as I had put on twitter; it was, like every game now, the most important one In 30 long years.

This was it.

The Liverpool line-up read like a Who’s Who of Potential Greats; Alisson in goals, Trent Alexander-Arnold and Andy Robertson as wing-backs. Virgil van Dijk and Joe Gomez at the back – it was like reciting your address – that’s how familiar the team is. Jordan Henderson (Captain), Gini Wijnaldum and Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain in the middle with Mo Salah, Bobby Firmino and Sadio Mane up top – tormentors supreme.

Man United – they didn’t have Marcus Rashford, who had come on and off in the mid-week win over Wolves; so that was a bonus. They did have Martial though and he had previous against us; for didn’t he score two on his debut that one time, mmm.

They were still Man U though, no matter what XI they put out; still liable to come and trip us up and they would have loved nothing better. Still a threat not to be taken lightly.

And, so it proved. Untied had much more of the ball in the first ten or fifteen minutes as Liverpool began to, ‘Feel themselves into the game’ as Deano said.

Then Liverpool went on the attack.

The ball over the top, flighted long and rangy by the artillery shell of a Virgil pass was a key weapon as Mane and Mo Salah got behind United’s packed midfield.

Corner. Corner, creeping closer corner, like a shadow of red soldiers advancing across no-mans land, towards the enemy trench. Then, all of a sudden, the ball was gloriously thumped into the top left-hand corner of De Gea’s net!

It was only Virgil van Djke.

‘What a header son, what a header’ I could have gasped in my best excited Andy Gray Scottish voice.

This was the vital, vital breakthrough which we had craved.

I jumped off the sofa and ran down the wing so to speak towards the kitchen in complete celebration. Shouting ‘Yeaaaaaahhhhhhssssss’ at the top of my voice.

Then, moments later it seemed, I jumped off the sofa again, in a double-take celebration as Bobby Firmino curled home a pearler which swept into the same portion of De Gea’s net.

‘Yes, yeahhhhs,’ again I roared like a lion on drugs and as we were now 2-0 up, I felt that we could crush them.

But oh no, no, it got disallowed and I could not believe it. Virgil van Dijk had supposedly fouled De Gea as he had challenged for the ball. The Dutchman had hardly touched De Gea.

I was gutted.

Liverpool pressed, pressed like a vice and very soon, thanks to slick passing movements, Gini Wijnaldum got in on our left and slotted low and accurately inside the base of De Gea’s left post. It was a superb finish.

Off I exploded again, like a pile of TNT, this time nearly hitting the kitchen door. Then, then, reality struck or VAR, did as the goal was ruled out for offside.

‘Yeah, it’s not a goal’ the boys concluded.

‘I’m never going to celebrate a goal again’ I said, absolutely distraught, with my heart beating ten-to-the-dozen.

United even survived a gilt-edged chance from Sadio Mane who when clean through, somehow shot straight at De Gea.

‘How did he miss that!’ Dean shouted, perplexed that we had not scored again. ‘This is going to bite us on the bum’ he added.

At half-time I got our favourites, the soft refresher like sweets and the pink and green ones; pouring them into the bowl, which was almost empty. We would need, to para-phrase Sir Huw Dowding, as regards the foreign squadrons, in the Battle of Britain, every last one of them.

At one stage in the first half I had even caught Kelsey’s attention, as she stopped to look and stare at me, as I had shouted at the top of my voice at some slack defending by the reds.

‘Sorry Kels’ I said, ‘but it is these bast888s’, as though I had a stone-wall alibi.

‘What do you mean, you always shout!’ Deano had responded, with me laughing.

With Liverpool attacking the Kop In the second half, they went for it.

Just how, how they never scored in that exhilarating first quarter I will never know. We were all going nuts with pent-up excitement of being so near yet, yet so far.

Mo Salah with that chance. Clean through and he just got the hair’s breath of touches to the ball when with any sort of powerful connection, it would have rippled the net.

‘He doesn’t score easy chances’ I gasped, almost holding my head in my hands, adding, ‘he only scores spectacular goals’ as I thought back to the hat-full he’d missed against Salzburg away and then fired home that second from a ridiculous angle which Pythagoras would have been scratching his head at.

Henderson fired in a rocket which looked in all the way until De Gea showed his undoubted class by somehow flinging out his left arm to tip onto the post. There were other chances but I’ll be buggered if I can recall them right now. It was all a red blur – like a Martian weed from ‘War of the Worlds’.

It left the game, as I did say then, several times, ‘On a knife-edge’.

United had survived the onslaught – by the skin of their teeth. They were jammy but were still in the game and still only one goal behind. Liverpool seemed to just go into their defensive shell. Tried to conserve energy and beat off United almost with one hand but the ball kept going back to United and United kept coming dangerously forward.

‘Watch him, watch him!’ I roared on more than one occasion, pointing at the screen, as a United player came down Liverpool’s left, having the freedom of Anfield. Do you think Trent heard me above the din – no chance!

The sweets were going down as my nerves began to be shredded. At one point I held out my left hand and found that it was physically shaking. That’s how tense I was. That’s how tense these games can get to you – especially this one, especially on this occasion when Liverpool were continually unable to get hold of the ball as though it was someone reaching for the remote as it hung tantalisingly on the edge of the sofa.

‘I’m just waiting for them to score’ I said, shaking my head as another attack went in, like a flight of Stuka dive-bombers attacking the little ships in the channel off the beaches of Dunkirk. Fortunately though, Liverpool had some high calibre defensive guns in Alisson, Gomez and the outstanding, Virgil van Djke.

‘Time!!’ we all roared as Alisson at last got hold of the ball, with seconds remaining. Do you think he listened to us – did he heck as like as he kicked the ball high and long to Salah, who was lucky to still be on the pitch, as he had lost countless balls. However, Super Mo held this ball up. Then he only left two United players in his wake as he sped off towards the Kop End. De Gea came out to the edge of the area and Mo Salah only nutmegged him and finished United off with a low powerful finish into the bottom left-hand corner of De Gea’s net!

This time, this time, I did not care, all hell broke loose as I went nuts, jumping off the sofa, again and just celebrating in ecstasy….

I think half the street heard – never mind poor baby Kelsey, as the realisation kicked-in that we were at last on the verge of beating our most hated of enemies, in such dramatic fashion.

‘That’s not offside!!’ one of the boys shouted in joy.

Then we heard it, heard it for the first time, and as I write this it is giving me goose-bumps, with me now trying to fight back the emotion, as the Kop began daring to sing a thirty – year-old hit.

It felt fantastic – one day, hopefully, I  will be able to sing it, along with the fat-lady, who is now perhaps putting her make-up on and flicking through her wardrobe, with a view to maybe, performing and saying, ‘Now, what jewellery shall I wear with my red dress and red shoes…’

20/1/20.

1764

Bailey’s Time

Tottenham Hotspur v Liverpool

11^th of January, 2020.

Davie greeted me at the door.

‘Leicester are losing’, he happily told me. That was a shock, as I had deliberately made sure I was un-aware of any football scores.

Dean was there and Carly – Davie’s wife, so ‘the gang was all there’.

‘Crumbs Crouch, what are you doing here so early?’ Carly laughed, as usually I arrive with ten minutes to spare before kick-off.

It was good to be there. It was almost as though I had waited around all day for the game. Just going to Morrisons and then back home and trying to see where I can go with a long – term story of Leighton Phillips.

I decided to do a Timeline of his career and fill in some details of his Welsh appearances – with his club appearances on the other side. To do that though I had to research a Rothman’s book and to do that meant tidying-up my mini library of books. I got to his 25^th appearance in the end though, much like Liverpool seem to have acquired this fantastic knack of grinding out wins.

So, as I plonked myself down on the sofa, akin to taking my old seat at Anfield; Leicester only went and equalised. ‘2-2’.

‘I’ll take that Crouch’ Davie said, smiling.

‘Too right’ I agreed.

Then, then, then, those three letters, which can mean so much, appeared on the screen of the BBC studio. ‘VAR’. We all held our collective breath’s and went, ‘YES!!!’ as though Liverpool had just scored. Well, they had in effect but only ‘if’ they could win their game, which was fast approaching like brighter days after four o’ clock.

I was armed and dangerous. Though the sweet bowl was full I had in reserve, akin to Klopp now being able to call on Shaqiri and very soon Fabinho and Joel Matip, bought little white mice sweets, along with a bag of chocolate and cream hundreds and thousands – three for a pound in Morrison’s (get on it!).

With Carly doing me a tea and also a doughnut – I was being spoilt, again, by my adopted family. So, we were set, especially as the others had opened bottles and cans; back home I had a Bailey’s on the rocks waiting for me.

Spurs away. Always dodgy. Even more so now that Jose, the ‘Not so Special One anymore’ was in charge of them. We just, just knew that he would not park just one bus but if he could, all 151 model buses which I had inherited from my late dad. They look fantastic by the way in his cabinet, with his photo inside of it, as you go into my house; I think he would have approved.

It was going to be a battle of attrition, akin to a slogging match like the 3^rd Battle of Ypres in 1917 and this time we hoped that right would prevail. To say we had history with Jose was an under-statement. We never meant to hate him but Carly hit the nail on the head when she just said, ‘When I look at him, I ate him’. Quite.

That game, we all know the one, when he scuppered our chances as Chelsea manager, weighed heavily on our minds before this game. We just could not stand it if he did us over again.

Jurgen Klopp selected his strongest Liverpool team. It goes to show how stable it is as any red can rattle off at least nine of the starting 11 without even thinking about it. Alisson was in goals. Trent Alexander-Arnold (who was December’s player of the month) and Andy Robertson were the attacking full-backs. Virgil van Dijk and Joe Gomez were the centre-halves. Jordan Henderson (captain), Gini Wijnaldum and Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain were in the middle with the terrible trio up top in the form of Mo Salah, Bobby Firmino and newly crowned African Footballer of the Year, the very humble, Sadio Mane.

As for Spurs, they were without Harry, I’m going to claim any goals I possibly can, Kane. A player I did not always dislike but do now after he tried to claim a goal and deny Mo Salah his Golden Boot in 2017-18. He was a big loss but they still had Son, who I would love to see in a red shirt and hope that our new signing, Takumi Minamino, takes inspiration from. Lloris was missing as well but there was still the coveted Christian Erikson – another player I’d gladly take off Tottenham’s hands – to warm our bench.

Liverpool attacked, almost after starter orders had been sounded. Bobby Firmino was inside their area, to the right of the screen as we looked at it. He shaped-up to shoot and their keeper, Gazzaniga, made a good save. Then Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain was Johnny-on-the-spot and fired in the rebound which we all thought was going to creep inside Gazzaniga’s right post; only it didn’t.

We all disappointedly sat back down.

‘That was a real chance’ Deano said; as an early breakthrough would have made all the difference against Spurs who were set-up in a typical 10-1 Jose formation.

Liverpool though continued to probe. Passing out wide at every opportunity – we just had to be patient I tried to keep telling myself as I got increasingly hyped-up, with Carly looking at me and Davie saying, ‘Alright Crouch’ at my angst boiling over at Jose – did I mention I don’t like him, or as my mum would say, ‘I don’t like the look of him’ and my brother would say, ‘I wouldn’t trust him as far as I can throw him’. Exactly, anyhow I was riiled and just desperately wanted Liverpool to score.

Sadio Mane put the ball over the bar as he almost lay flat on the ground. By his standards we knew it had been a chance.

‘How did he miss that?’ Dean said in exasperation as Davie continued to have ‘if looks could kill’ glances from Carly every time he called Jose a ‘*unt’.Davie though led his defence with a rock solid alibi, as though aided by Virg and Gomez, ‘it’s football love’, with Carly disapprovingly shaking her head. It would have been an opportune moment to have joked that Davie was going to get another bruise after we left, as we jokingly jest that Carly is the boss in the house; they are both so funny and Davie winds her up at any opportunity.

‘I have to put-up with this all the time, Crouch’ she said to me, with me trying not laugh!

I love them – fair do’s, in my typical Welsh manner…

We could hear the Liverpool fans – after Deano had tried to figure where they were located in the ground – Spurs new ground on this, Liverpool’s debut there. They were behind Alisson’s goal and soon had something very significant to sing about and dreams to more than day-dream about.

After great build-up, Mo Salah was inside the centre of the Spurs area. Three players surrounding him. Don’t dare tell me that Mo doesn’t make a major contribution to our team. It was akin to the King himself, Dalglish in his pomp with his bum sticking out, shielding the ball; that’s the highest praise I can bestow on Mo. With a flick of his boot he squeezed a square ball to his right, to Bobby Firmino, who was on the edge of the 6 – yard area. Bobby did not even look as he struck a left-footed shot which arrowed straight into the left netting of Gazzaniga’s goal. It was as though Bobby had just flicked the switch of a kettle, that’s how easy he made it look.

‘Yes’ we all shouted with me jumping off the sofa, fist clenched. It was a vital breakthrough.

But lo, hang on a cotton picking second, as my dad used to say, when I were a lad, as we had to wait in mid-ecstasy, almost, as we looked at the screen with VAR checking the goal. It was such a let-down moment. I could use an ecstasy fuelled analogy here but let’s just keep it clean, and say it must be like calling a ‘House!’ in bingo and having instantly having it checked.

‘It’s a goal!’ one of the other three said and we were pleased to say the least.

Liverpool still probed a tad before the break but not too so much of an extent. It was all on Spurs now as we had torn Jose’s blue-print into little pieces; we had forced him to go back to the drawing-board.

At the break, with Carly kindly making me another tea, as she said, ‘I do everything in this house’ whilst looking at a smirking Dave who had, to be fair, whipped his measuring tape out, to suss out if a set of draws could be transferred from one girls bedroom to one of the others. Kayla, the oldest you see, wants to have her room re-decorated, especially as she is about 14 now, and of course, you can’t do one room without doing the other two, and also Carly wants something done to the hall again as well – it seems they never stand still in the Wheatstone House; a bit like Liverpool continually re-developing Anfield and striving to emulate the Old Trafford football stadiums of this world!

I put the three bags of assorted sweets in the bowl. ‘I don’t like chocolate ones Crouch’, Davie wise-crackingly moaned.

‘Don’t worry Crouch, I love chocolate’ Carly said, smiling in anticipation of having more of the sweet brown stuff. So, like a magician producing a rabbit out of the hat, I put a bag of the soft refresher favourites on the table; just for Davie.

‘That’s better, Crouch’ he said, as the second half began with no changes and Liverpool just passing, passing, passing, side-ways, back, side-ways, back, between Joe Gomez and Virgil van Dijk, to Henderson, occasionally to Gini Wijnaldum and on rare occasions to a bursting Trent Alexander-Arnold or Andy Robertson – who one time went into a full throttle tackle which he could not avoid, due to his natural rhythm. No foul. End of.

Many times though, we all were concerned. Just wanting Liverpool to kill the game stone dead with a second goal.

‘Just one Spurs chance; that’s all it takes’ Dean the sage said, echoing how I felt. Just knowing a Spurs goal would alter the whole complexion of the game.

We did not know what it was; over-confidence, a lack of concentration or something which Spurs had done, by maybe pushing-up more, because all of a sudden, in the best story-telling way, Liverpool began to look rattled.

Henderson should have cleared the ball near half-way, someone else could have got a tackle in, Virgil van Dijk and Joe Gomez were hesitant and if anything got in each – others way, as Spurs broke-through a few times.

Just at the point of a Spurs player pulling the trigger, Virgil van Dijk made a brilliant block-busting goal saving tackle, flinging himself at the ball like Tarzan swinging from a tree to rescue Jane. It was as vital as a reds goal.

However, Spurs should have scored, again, as I looked at the clock which was ticking as slowly as though I was stuck in a long Post Office queue collecting my mums pension before Christmas, as Son pulled a shot wide and then Spurs sub, Lo Celso in near Alisson’s right near post and I held my head in my hands, as though a crash was going to happen, just expecting the net to bulge. Miraculously though, Lo Celso somehow put the ball wide of Alisson’s left post, with the ball having skimmed the goal-line…

It was a real let-off and you could almost have heard a pin drop in the Wheatstone’s living room.

‘Oh my God, how did he miss THAT?’ Dean sighed, expressing our sentiments…

In response, Divock Origi, who had come on, had a bit of twinkle toes magic; beating three players to  get a shot off which was comfortably saved.

Alisson then saved and he took heed of our frantic instructions; ‘TIME! Hold the f**king ball’, we urged collectively, just hoping we could waste more precious seconds.

‘Blow-up you *rick!’ I screamed at the referee, Martin Atkinson, as he tried to give Spurs more time to equalise.

All the while, I just kept trying to keep a check on my mounting excitement as another victory drew closer, closer, closer, all the time, with every kick away, with every tackle, with every last Liverpool players breath of desire; as finally the whistle blew.

Phew!

We had won but as The Duke of Wellington said of the Battle of Waterloo; ‘it was a mighty close – run thing’.

It signalled ‘Bailey’s Time’.

12/1/20

A.C.Legs

2141

‘Klopp’s Kids beat the Blues’

Liverpool v Everton

FA Cup, 3^rd Round

5^th of January, 2020.

Carly, Dave’s wife, greeted me at the door, in her green District nurses outfit, and said, ‘I have to go to work now’. It was gutting, as Carly is as much a part of watching the game as the tv itself.

‘Fudge’, the dog, followed close behind – forever looking for attention. I mean, that sad looking face and big brown eyes, how could I refuse as I patted her head and fondled her chin, before she led me to the living room door.

It was here I found Davie and Deano, two veteran red fans of my vintage, who have not only shouted at the tv with me but have also had dreams and songs to sing in the pubs around and inside Anfield itself.

It was a good job, whilst in Morrison’s that I had not completely wasted, whiling, away my two hours, twittering having coffee, in between attempting two annoyingly difficult crosswords, for I did actually get not one, but two packets of sweets. Two packs of those soft, Refresher ones – pink/white and blue/red ones – almost without realising it; they had been selected for the ‘Derby’.  

‘Dave just went over the shops to get some sweets’, Carly said, no doubt secretly wishing she was staying with us. Then I produced the sweets I’d got for us so we had ‘double-bubble’. The odds on the yummy sweets lasting before half-time were as long as Liverpool’s winning the game.

So, this was the FA Cup tie which our manager, Jurgen Klopp did not want, after the team had played something ridiculous like 8 games in about a month and travelled half-way across the world in the process – such is the price of a success  which we could have only have dreamed about 4 years ago,  before he came.

The Derby, Liverpool v Everton. I had taken in the fact that it was the most played FA Cup tie. One of the lads on twitter, ‘Andy Mills’ I think it was, asked what was the best reds game ‘we’ had seen. Despite many European triumphs, I plumbed for the 1986 FA Cup Final, when Liverpool finally, completed the Domestic Double, by beating Everton 3-1 with 2 goals from my hero, Ian Rush. At this moment in history, I am standing by that – just.

With Liverpool’s first choice team in dire need of a rest, and klopp’s options dwindling more than the chances of peace in the Middle East, there was an un-familiar Liverpool line-up which ran out at Anfield for the tie against Everton.

Adrian was in goals which was a gimmie, James Milner was at left-back and captain. Neco Williams, a young Welsh lad was at right-back – he had distinguished himself v Arsenal in the 5-5 League Cup draw, by whipping in the last second ball for Origi to finish and take the tie to Extra-Time and Penalties (which the Under-23’s won). At centre-half was the re-called Nat Phillips (no, no relation!) who had been playing for Stuttgart in the German Second Division. Alongside him was ‘Mr Rolls’ to Virgil van Dijk’s ‘Mr Royce’ in the form of Joe Gomez who has been nothing short of sublimely purring since coming back into the side.

In the middle was Pedro Chirivella – a young twenty something, alongside the experienced Adam Lallana and a local lad called, Curtis Jones, who had scored the winning penalty in that epic cup tie against Arsenal.

Up front was Divock Origi – given another rare start but mind, he likes Everton and had helped destroy them in December’s 5-2 win. New £7.25 million signing, Takumi Minamino from RB Salzburg was making his debut and also there was 16 year – old, Harvey Elliott, who had come on at Anfield for less than five minutes, in Thursday night’s 2-0 win over Sheffield United.

So, the team was not exactly the normal line-up and to be fair, we did not expect anything from them, other than for them to give their all.

Everton – well, I didn’t care or to be totally blunt; didn’t take any interest in them or their line-up. I just knew that newly installed manager, Carlo Ancelotti, would be fielding his strongest team and knew that if Everton were ever going to beat Liverpool, for the first time in 10 years, let alone for the first time in 20 years at Anfield, then Everton would never be presented with a better late Christmas gift-wrapped opportunity.

The sweets were already half-full in the bowl as the first half got under-way and the Blues had won the toss and decided to get Liverpool to attack the Kop in the first half.

The kids started slowly; a tad nervously as expected.

‘Well, you never know’ we said, with Davie sitting in his favourite swivel, bond villain chair, whilst I still grappled with the make-up of our team, never mind the Everton one.

Everton should have scored, not once but at least twice.

Adrian saved with the base of his heel on one occasion proving again, a great stand-in for Alisson. We held our breath as 8,000 blues breathed bitterness down on him.

‘Phew’ we went, with me greedily grabbing not one but three sweets as they were going down like a paratrooper jumping out of an aeroplane.

Liverpool though suffered an early blow after 6 minutes as James Milner went off.  Klopp must have looked as worried as we were as our ‘Milly’ our ‘Swiss Army Knife’ as Davie called him, reluctantly left the field. It made Klopp’s decision not risk too many regular players a wiser one.

Everton were having joy down our left, especially facing our young sub, the Algerian, Yasser Larouci; a strongly built man, who was great in the tackle and improved as the game went on.

The blues should, just should have taken the lead, when Holgate headed the ball straight at Adrian. Anywhere either side of Adrian and the net would have bulged.

It had been a gilt-edged chance.

‘We need to be quicker’ Deano said, as he expressed his concerns that we were getting bullied in midfield.

The youngsters though were holding their own, at least they were not on-their way to an un-flattering 5-0 scoreline; like they had suffered at Villa in the League Cup before Christmas. This time, as they were knocking the ball about, their confidence was increasing; they were posing a threat.

At one stage Divock Origi managed to turn inside the area, following a pass from Elliott and his low shot was saved by a sprawling yellow shirted Jordan Pickford, who tipped the ball away down at his right near post. It was a good save but had the ball gone in, the goal would not have counted due to offside. The subsequent corner was dangerously whipped in at pace – like they all were taken by either Elliott or Chirivella and they always beat the first man, as Deano demands.

As the half-time whistle blew Davie got-up and very kindly made another lush cuppa (he could do it again. Carly would agree!) and we were all happy with the way the first 45 had gone.

‘We are still in the game’ Deano said and that was all that mattered to us.

Gary Lineker just had to get a dig in though about scoring a goal in the 1986 Derby win at Anfield and if he did, as my mum would say, because I nearly lost it!

‘Yes, tell them about what happened later at Wembley, Lineker, when we won the Double!!’ I screamed, still recalling him and Rio Ferdinand’s joy at Liverpool being 3-0 down at Barcelona last season (and looked then what happened then when he had gloated!).

It was a good job Davie had got them other sweets, the bitter ones, which look like a bottle opener, with sugar on them but become sweet, the more they are sucked and the soft red and white ones, which look as though they have a cherry, because not only were we eating them but also Kelsey was, the 7 year-old baby and Kaitlyn too, before she escaped back to her room away from us three loons.

Whatever Klopp said to Liverpool at the break must rank as one of his most famous pep talks for when the lads, quite literally in some cases, emerged for the second half it was as though they had donned the jerseys of their more senior teammates, for they just pressed like a red hot iron and passed the ball around, subsequently bossing the second half. It was a joy to watch. Incredible. The three of us just could not believe it. I mean, I was not too stressed or kicking every ball like I can do. It was the manner of their display – it defied belief.

I can’t even signal anyone out as they all played as one. Everton hardly had a sniff of the ball, because Liverpool dominated the second half, especially with the Kop behind their backs, who were superb and never stopped singing and urging.

Neco Williams fired in a fierce warning, with a thunderous long-range shot from outside the left of Pickford’s area which the England number one could only spill but there was no-one there, like a Salah, to capitalize.

‘He’ll get Mane on’, Dean said, ‘why not. A bit of quality’ he suggested, as we saw Sadio warming-up with about a quarter of an hour to go.

All that was needed was a goal to cap a fine performance.

Origi got into the area, on the right as Pickford looked at it. On the edge of the ‘d’, Curtis Jones demanded the ball. Well, his wish was Origi’s command and before we knew it, in the blink of a Fudge bark, the ball was flying into the top left-hand corner, of Pickford’s goal.

I leapt off the sofa.

‘Oh my word, oh my word’ I kept saying in total disbelief at what I had just seen, before grabbing hold of one of Carly’s table chairs and banging it down on the wooded floor in total joy.

‘I cannot f**king believe it’ I then kept saying, as it dawned on me that we had just scored one of the finest Derby goals ever and it had been scored by a 18 – year – old Scouser.

On this occasion I did not care that they showed the goal over and over and over; it was an absolute dream-boat of a strike.

Everton were just stunned. They had no answer – no matter what Ancelotti did. Liverpool’s kids could even have scored again soon after.

The Blues were totally rattled.

Liverpool kept passing, passing, passing the ball around, very rarely letting it out of their sight, let alone possession.

It was a master-class of keep-ball.

When the whistle went it signalled that Liverpool had won a famous Derby victory – it had been a case of ‘Klopp’s Kids Beat the Blues’.

6/1/2020.

Swansea had not read the script. Liverpool carelessly lost the ball like the proverbial bar of slippery soap. Swansea attacked to my left and it resulted in a long shot being fired into Simon Mignolet’s bottom right hand corner.

It was 2-3 and Liverpool were in deep, deep trouble – again.

At one stage Philip Coutinho had gone off, Emre Can had finally left – he had done nothing. He was too slow and indecisive and too defensive. I did not know why Jurgen Klopp, our manager, had played Emre Can, Gini Wijnaldum and Jordan Henderson all together in the middle. The trio are all too defensively minded. Divock Origi was on, as well as the enigma that is Daniel Sturridge.

As the seconds ticked by, I realised that they were very, very crucial. If Liverpool could not pull the game around and somehow, not just equalise but go on and win, then the title challenge was over. Right there, right in front of my very eyes…

In my best Neville Chamberlain voice, I have to tell you now, that no such circumstances happened and consequently, Liverpool are not going to win the League this season.

They will not win the League this year or any year in fact, if they can’t solve their defensive deficiencies.

Despite the defeat, I stayed there. Just watching Liverpool leave the field. Some of the players bothered to raise their hands and clapped us. I responded, subdued by what had happened. I wonder if they were as despondent as I was.

I took the opportunity to take some more shots of the new stand, with my battery life on my phone running as low as the spirit was amongst our fans. It was almost like I wanted to drain every opportunity out of this time. I wanted to linger there, amongst the scene of defeat – wishing that it had not happened. It felt like I had just broken-up with a beloved ex and I did not want to leave her but just knew I had to. It was a private time…

We met-up by Bill Shankly’s statue. His arms open, as though at any moment, he was going to wrap the three of us up and give us a combined Welsh cwtch, which our mums gave us when we were kids, to sooth any pain away.

Dean so eloquently summed-up what the result meant.

‘Disastrous’.

We headed for ‘The Albert’, scene of many of our pre-match singing sessions. Even then it was getting packed. We had a beer or two, during which time we debated about what we had not done and more importantly, what we should do, to finally land the League title. At least under Jurgen Klopp the words ‘Liverpool’ and ‘title’ could be breathed in the same sentence.

The consensus of opinion was that we should go all out and get ‘Virgil Van Dyke’ from Southampton. Not wait until the summer, but splash whatever cash was needed and get him now – preferably before Wednesday’s 2^nd leg League Cup semi with Southampton. With him alongside Joel Matip, we could actually be solid at the back. There is only one snag though, Chelsea and Man City and Man United and Barcelona and Real, well you get the drift, may go in for him as well.

Then Dean asked us if we would have started the back four of Nathaniel Clyne, James Milner, Ragnar Klavan and Dejan Lovren, especially as we had just conceded three goals. Before the game, I was happy with the line-up but wondered why Joel Matip had not played. Davie though did not answer the question directly and so it started a discussion which would go on, on and on for hours – much to my exasperation. Davie said that for the last three games Trent Alexander-Arnold had played competently and covered the back four. However, no matter how many times Dean and I asked him, if he would have changed the back four for the game, he would again, just like a politician, not answer the question directly.

As the lads argued, I had one eye on the tv screens and they were relaying thirty-year old Liverpool goals, scored by Johnny Barnes, Terry McDermott, Johnny Aldridge and my favourite, Peter Beardsley – just why, oh why did Graeme Souness get rid of him? It was a degree of comfort to see them – again and marvel that we had been able to build League Title winning teams in my life-time.

At last we decided to go, as I said that it was still light and we did not know how long it would remain so. Around the corner and then we were hit by the red bricked metal un-moveable juggernaut that was the new main stand.

Photos left right and centre. We walked up the flight of steps, just marvelling at it. It made me feel a bit better.  It was just pride that our club had at last been transported to the 21^st Century, as though rocket-propelled. Suits were still emerging from its confines, armed with their ladies and children. During the game I had looked right in the middle of the stand and what I gathered to be the press area. It must have been a superb view from there. Gail had told me that the ground echoed when we scored and it had been some noise.

We all stood respectfully at the new location of the Hillsborough Memorial. There were lovely flowers there. Then we looked at the ages of the people, some were just under twenty or just over. It was sobering, especially as I said that in 1989, I had only been twenty years old myself. I could not help but go and touch the memorial, laying my hand flat on it. There was a time when I had my season ticket and it used to be by The Shankly Gates, that I always used to do that – just out of respect.

Dean summed it-up, ‘It looks really good there’.

Getting chips near ‘The Twelfth Man’ – which used to be called ‘The Salisbury’ back in the day when it was my first watering hole, we flagged a taxi down with a local lad and as we debated again on the deficiencies of our back-four, we arrived near Lime Street. Our train was not until 18.40 and so we killed time by going in a bar called, ‘O’Grady’s’. Of all the people in there were a mob of Swansea fans. They were good lads and up in town for the weekend. They did not rub the win in our noses and we chatted about our different accumulated bets. One of the lads had put Newport County down to score and they had let us down. Swansea winning had also been a coupon buster for their fans. Maybe we should bet on Liverpool losing every game, that way we would be in a win-win situation – no, that would kill me.

A couple chatted to us and even bought us drinks. They had been to the nearby theatre to see the musical, ‘The Commitments’. It had meant that the fella, John, had not been able to ‘go the match’ and it had been for him, just as well.

‘We were dancing in the aisles’, his wife said, laughing.

I recommended that they see ‘Blood Brothers’, saying to the lady that her husband would love it, as it is set just outside Liverpool. In one way it was a relief not to talk football, but about other things. I felt then that I wished we were all staying-up in the city – maybe that will keep for another time.

Raiding a Sainsbury’s, not robbing it, as Davie joked that I had, we boarded our Virgin train and before we knew it, Crewe was approaching, just as a paranoid Dean made sure that it would.

‘Make sure that we don’t miss Crewe’ he had insisted, as he refused to drink the can which Davie had stuffed with Pringles and paper.

When we got to Crewe, the mother of all rail connections, we headed for the bar. There we got into conversation with a group of Preston fans and they said, ‘Newport are here lads’.

‘We are Liverpool fans’, Dean said, not for the first time that day. It was akin to displaying a proud badge of honour.

The train came and lo and behold, there was a lad on there I had seen about in work and always seemed nice enough. He was a Swan and we all chatted as we flew back home. He had gone to see Wales lots of times and to Euro 2016 of course. Davie and I had loved it, seeing Wales there and Dean knew that for a few years I had watched Wales. Dean though was Liverpool and that was it. Like I said earlier, Wales probably come fourth on my list.

I told Huw that my second cousin, Leighton Phillips had played for Swansea a few times and for Wales too. That he was from Briton Ferry, in Neath, where my dad is from. That I had only met him once but he had known who I was. All I could talk to him about though, this player who had captained Aston Villa once and had given me and my brother a photo of that team, was of course Liverpool. Now I would ask him lots of things and try and write a piece on him. Maybe I will meet him again; this person who told me Paul Walsh was a tidy lad, as he had played with him at Charlton.

With drink in our bellies, with pride still in our club, we had songs to sing and Dean started the ball rolling with ‘Bertie Mee said to Bill Shankly, have you heard of the North Bank Highbury. Shanks said no I don’t think so, but have you heard of the Anny Road aggro’. And that was it. A starting pistol. The three of us sang – badly. With memories of better times flooding back into our veins, of being ‘In the Albert’ again, in Rafael Benitez’s times.

We just sang the full repertoire, performing our own ode musical to our beloved Liverpool. From Xabi Alonso scoring from seventy yards, through to a ‘Team of Carragher’s’, ‘Every Other Saturday’ to Luis Suarez’s ‘Just Can’t Get Enough’ and then finally, heart-warmingly almost, considering how he left us, we finished off by singing about one of the much loved world class players ever to grace a red shirt, in the form of one Fernando Torres – ‘Bounce’ as we nearly jumped-up in our seats.

 We did not care who heard us. We were in our own little clique, like lovers talking about their shared experiences and sharing their own special songs.

We had a bond that would never leave us.

We may have left Liverpool but you could not take Liverpool out of us, especially on the day we had visited our ‘Spiritual Home’…

4,286

Andrew Phillips

22/1/17

Spiritual Home

It was not until I looked to the left of me that I really smiled. It came from within. After five years and a three- hour train journey, my eyes saw the distinctive Liverpool skyline, which had the spherical St. George’s Tower, a cathedral and one to spare. I felt in those moments that I was almost in my spiritual home.

My two companions were as passionate Liverpool fans as myself. Dean and Davie had both gone to many Liverpool games and as we would explain a few times, during the course of the day, that we three used to have season tickets. Now we watch Liverpool’s games on the TV, together, so this was a rare pilgrimage to our ‘mecca’.

The first task, having reached a crowded and busy Lime Street, was to join the end of an ever- increasing queue for a taxi. It was cold. I was glad that I had taken the old advice of a former lady, and had worn thin layers. After Dean shivered and complained that people were going to Anfield and not sharing the five- seater taxi, ours arrived.

At first, the driver, who I’ll call Fred, made the false presumption that, with our Welsh accents, we were Swansea City supporters. We soon put him right. If circumstances had been different, about 55 years ago, then he might have been right in my case, as both my parents originate from that area – it is indeed, the land of my father and grand-fathers too.

Fred told us that he used to work for Sky. That amongst his regular clients had been Gary Lineker.

‘Nice lad Gary’, he said, as he told us that he used to pick-up, the one- time England goal-scorer and travel the same journey as we were now – headed towards Liverpool’s ground.

Fred loved Cardiff but did not like going to Wembley. It was the motorways and the congestion. This fella had silver hair and the stress of driving all the time had got to him. He was content now to just drive around his own town, without the aid of his sat-nat. He only used that particular device to pre-warn him of the sneaky speed cameras.

A young Steven Gerrard had also been amongst his clients, as he name dropped. Telling us that he used to pick Stevie up when he was just starting out on his career. This was on the day after Gerrard had decided to come back to his roots and take a job working at Liverpool with the youth lads, on the first step to no doubt becoming manager at Anfield. Fred also used to pick-up Barry Horne, the former Everton and Wales midfielder, and take him to Cardiff too, via mid Wales. Jamie Carragher, a player who ranks 2^nd in Liverpool’s all-time appearance list, was another person he used to pick up. Fred would be worth a chapter all on his own, in a book called ‘Liverpool’s Characters’.

Dean said what I was thinking as we had headed-up the hill, past the old Strawberry Fields, as we dropped down into Everton and then, magically for us, Anfield.

‘We are heading towards the supporters club, Crouch’, he said to me, as he called me by my adopted name, which I have been called since we signed Peter Crouch, in 2006.

‘Yes’, I said and as I looked to my left, I caught the first glimpse of the grey, metal frame and steel structure which dwarfed over the streets of back-to-back brown houses: – Anfield Stadium.

We turned left and Dean said, ‘Anywhere by here drive’ and as I had pictured it, there was ‘The Flat Iron’, on our right. As we three got out, I glanced up the road and just like in the painting I had bought years before, the famous Anfield Kop stand, jutted up but now over-shadowed by the new Main Stand. Already there was a sea of people in red milling around the ground. We soon hot-footed it into the pub.

The arrangement was to meet Andy from Worcester there. As though sounding like the fans long song, ‘Poor Scouser Tommy’, the story is that Dean and Davie met big Andy in a bar in Cologne, in 2005, during the game versus Bayern Leverkusen after they could not get into the Last 16 Round Champions League tie. The three of them recognised each other, from having gone into ‘The Albert’, a pub just a stone’s throw from the Kop. It had been the start of a beautiful, noisy and beery, friendship.

Andy, balding, tipsy, and the first one to make fun of himself; explained that his wife to be had had difficulty with sending out invites to his summer wedding. As most blokes do, they name people with nicknames. It had taken her ages to decipher Andy’s list. Amongst those going was Dean and Davie. Andy pointed out that he had known them longer, than he had known his intended. It was a marriage made in heaven when those three had met.

With Beatles pictures prominent and fliers to other bands crammed on the walls, the juke box was on but this was not the right conditions for what Davie and I wanted to do; to have a sing song, like we all used to.

Andy got the juke box volume lowered and then we began, with him, as usual, leading. It only took one match – to burn a thousand trees, so to speak, as ‘The Kop Anthem’, ‘Poor Scouser Tommy’ was belted out. Then another favourite, which would jostle for a Kop Top Ten, was started by Andy, as we sang ‘Every Other Saturday’. With a bit of coaxing from Dean, as he said cryptically, ‘Where was he outside?’ the penny finally dropped for Andy, as he began, ‘The Fields of Anfield Road’.

It felt good to be back home and in the groove.

All of Andy’s mates sang too but not the rest of the pub. This was not like ‘The Park’ or ‘The Albert’ in their heydays, when all the people joined in. That had been magical. A case of, ‘I was there’. In those moments, everyone felt as one. It was un-explainable. It was especially explosive when Rafael Benitez was at the helm. There were times, between 2005-08 when we felt, invincible again.

As I was coming back from the loo, I just could not help but notice a mural on the one wall. The large image, of a white number seven, on a red background – it could only have been of Kenny Dalglish, Liverpool legend. With a great symbolism, alongside him was painted one Ian Rush, the Welshman who scored 346 goals for the club, many of them made by ‘King Kenny’ himself in the most- deadliest, stealthiest, prolific partnerships of all-time, which terrorised every defence it came across in the early 1980’s. Was it no wonder I just had to take a photo of it – despite realising criminally, that my camera’s battery was dying on me.

We went up the road, following the path, again of the old painting I had fortunately bought years ago. Past houses on either side then hitting the edge of the stadium and Flag Pole corner, on our right. This is as famous a landmark as the Kop itself; for the pole is all that is left of Ismbard Kingdom Brunel’s mammoth iron ship; ‘The SS Great Eastern’. Anfield is full of history, as well as dreams and songs to sing.

‘You can frisk him if you want’, joked Davie, to the girl, before I was about to go into the ground, with the new Main Stand, towering above us, to our left. It looked so impressive.

The girl laughed, as she looked inside my carrier. Two programmes, a paper and crisps. That was it. I had managed to eat all my food and drink a can of beer. The boys had a few lagers on the way up but not me, as I wanted to try and remember something of the day, if I could.

I followed the boys up the well – trodden stairs, up to the concourse and we were deep inside the womb of the Kop. Fans were queuing-up everywhere for food and drink. We decided where to meet at half-time and I texted my long- time friend, Gail, to tell her where we would be.

It was time then to make my way to Block 205 and then I emerged through the opening, as though emerging from my own tunnel of darkness, which had lasted five years. In front of me was the lush green turf of Anfield. It was a proud moment. I reached the seat and as a lad I knew came in, he said,

‘You stay there Crouchie’, due to my height. It was a wise option.

I introduced myself to the Scouser who was next to me. A fella called Mike and I explained I was ashamed to say that I had not been for five years but I did point out to Block 203, to the left, where my season ticket used to be.

Before we knew it, it was 12.30 and I lustily sang our anthem, you all know it, as Mr Hicks said at the Hillsborough Concert in 1997, ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’. With scarfs raised everywhere it was a sight and sound to behold. I took it all in, with my eyes finally looking at the new stand to my left. It was awesome.

Liverpool were five points off leaders Chelsea. In third place, on 45 points with Spurs, who were second on goal difference. I felt that if we were to have any chance of winning that elusive first championship in 27 years, then we (Liverpool) simply had to beat Swansea.

Swansea had taken a tattering against a few clubs in recent matches and had finally got rid of Mr Yank and his ‘P-kick’ phrase, Bob Bradley. Paul Clement had come in and this was his first game in charge. Under any normal circumstances, I would wish Swansea all the best. However, on this occasion, I wanted them to lose. Liverpool first, second and third – always in that order for me. Wales come fourth. It has always been Liverpool and it always will be Liverpool. I love them and no-one else comes close to that.

Liverpool at least won the toss and elected to play with their backs towards the Kop in the first half. Over Christmas I had asked for a book on the ‘Team of all the Macs’. It was the story detailing how LFC had been founded and how their team had been largely recruited from bonny Scotland. Hence the nickname they had been given. In the first game at Anfield, our first captain had elected to also defend the Kop End, and the tradition has just carried on throughout the 127 – year history of the club.

Swansea put-up an all- white impregnable wall. Liverpool just could not break them down. I again marvelled though at being able to see my heroes in the flesh, 30 seasons since I had first gone to Anfield. To watch the movement off the ball of Phil Coutinho and see him pass out wide to James Milner a lot of the time, as he tried to make it to the by-line and put a cross in. It was pure theatre. I felt as though all the travelling and early get-up had been worthwhile. Only 57,000 could be witnessing the spectacle, hearing the crowd and feeling the cold.

I stood-up for the entire first half. Half of the Kop to my left were sitting down. I tried to sing as many times as I could before my voice got a bit hoarse. Years ago, I would never stop singing, encouraging, yelling at the players.

Swansea came close. They were right below me and had half a chance. A set-piece – Liverpool’s Achilles heel.

Liverpool’s best chances came when Roberto Firmino had a header go just over and Adam Lallana and his fluorescent green boots, tried an overhead kick, which also went over. Despite all that possession and control of the play, the home team had failed to break Swansea down.

I went to meet the lads and they both said what I thought. Liverpool had been too slow. They needed to be sharper. They may have been missing Sadio Mane – our winger, who was competing in the African Nations Cup. Then I went to see Gail, whom I had not seen for five or so years. We had met on the old standing Kop, when Liverpool had last won the league and she told me that Jacob, her son, whom she held now, whilst he tucked into some Pringles, had never seen Liverpool win in the two times he had come to Anfield. We laughed worriedly and hoped that it was not a bad omen.

When I reached my place, the ref had not waited for me and the game had re-started. Within moments Swansea were on the attack and had taken a corner and hey ho, scored. A great finish.

‘Un-believeable…’ Mike said, shaking his head, as the Swans fans exploded in the bottom left-hand corner.

The fans urged the team to pull their socks-up and they scampered to win the crucial first balls. However, Swansea, with their tails-up, countered and before anyone knew it, especially Liverpool’s lackadaisical, dawdling defence, scored again – from another set-piece, to go 2-0 up.

An utter calamity was taking place. If it was a play I was watching, it would have been a farce. It could even have been screened in the lovely old ornate Grand Theatre which Swansea possesses. It would have been be a hoot for the locals to have seen.

Everyone around me was shouting. Swear words. Liverpool’s movement finally became slicker. They were playing with real desire – at last. Somehow, Roberto Firmino headed the ball into the bottom right hand corner of the keeper’s net, just below me. I was delighted but just, just could not jump-up and celebrate. I felt numb and tired but glad that we had pulled a goal back. Maybe I was disappointed and could not shake myself. One goal was the minimum I had expected Liverpool to have scored.

Then after another attack Roberto Firmino planted an effort into the left corner. 2-2. He set off an explosion of noise and ran to the corner and slid on the ground, in salute. Roberto ‘Bobby’ Firmino should play more centrally and here he was showing why, to deadly affect.

At this stage, there was only going to be one winner – wasn’t there?