When the heart rules the head

After the flurry of activity on this wee corner of cyberspace that was initiated as a result of the fortunes of the marvelous, nay heroic actions of Liverpool FC, I have had to put myself into a darkened corner and revive myself and refresh my totally and utterly spent reservoir of adrenaline.

OK – perhaps not but it’s not that far from the truth.

A combination of work and being on the lash a bit over recent days – never a good combination - ensured that I didn’t have much time for sharing my thoughts with you.

I’m sure you survived (no really, I’m sure you did) but I now feel the need to feed the flames of our formative relationships with a few more thoughts and observations – after all - I gotta keep you guys interested and with the number of people registering with the site increasing on a – oh I dunno – one per week basis, the pressure most definitely is on.

Over a week after THAT football match and the rollercoaster ride is finally coming to a stop.

Except – like all good rollercoaster rides, this one had a twist right at the end that I didn’t see coming which I feel the need to share with you all.

At the start of the season, like most football supporting people, I followed my heart instead of my head and placed a few bets on my team to win a few things. I have an online account with www.bluseq.com (I should be on commission really, for mentioning them) and I placed 2 bets – one that our new signing Djibril Cisse would be the leading goal scorer and that we would win the Premier League.

Cisse broke his leg after scoring three goals for us and was out for over half of the season. Liverpool finished 5th and 37 points behind the champions Chelski.

So much for betting with your heart.

Indeed, the only bet that I didn’t throw money on was the impossibility of winning club football’s greatest prize.

Except – that’s not true.

I just logged onto my account today and discovered the following:

SELECTION(S)
Event info:Champions League 2004-2005Champions League 19:48 25/05/2005
Market:Outright - Win or Each-Way 1/2 1,2 Selection:Liverpool @ 25/1
Win To Win


RECEIPT(S)
Receipt No:O/0412385/0000065
Placed At:07:05 27/08/2004
Bet Type:Single
Stake per line:EUR 5.00
Number of lines:1
Stake:EUR 5.00
Number of win lines:1
Number of void lines:0
Returns:EUR 130.00
Refund:EUR 0.00
Settle info:

It seems that as well as betting on Cisse to be leading goal scorer in the Premiership and Liverpool to win the Premier league, I did also have the faith on the 27th August 2004 to put my money where my mouth is. Only 5 euros, but it changed into a much healthier 130 Euros thanks to my foresight.

Now – I’m gonna place it place it all on Motivator for tomorrow's Derby on a double with Stevie Gerrard to stay at Liverpool.

Now – with the weekend almost upon us, I say go forth and talk codshit to strangers.

I know I will…

This blog entry was brought to you whilst listening to the Late, Great Johnny Cash doing his covering version of Nine Inch Nail’s song “Hurt”

Plagiarism - it's the only way forward!

I can't claim this one - although I'd really like to. I found it on the internet - author unknown...

The 96 were watching as we walked out in Istabul
And Shanks and Bob and Emlyn, they were looking down as well
It seemed to be all over when Milan scored their three goals
But someone else was watching and that man was a Pole.

So the folks up there in heaven were a little bit surprised
When Pope John Paul the second appeared right before their eyes
He smiled at Shanks and Bob and Em knelt down and said some prayers Then turned back towards the lads and said “I just spoke to Him upstairs

– He can’t do much that’s obvious, but he’ll see what he can do
He thinks it might be better if you played a 3-5-2
He saw the team was struggling, and that Finnan needed a rest
But don’t you worry lads ‘cause now the ‘keepers gloves are blessed
You see - the lad in nets is one of mine So I put in a request

“I know I lived in Italy, down in the Vatican
But I can’t quite bring myself to be shouting for Milan
So the words gone down to Rafa, to do the best he can
He whispered very quietly he’d do better with Hamman

He’s says you’ll be alright from now The game it isn’t dead
And things will soon get better if young Steve uses his head
It was Vladi’s birthday yesterday and the man owes him some luck
He’ll even do the decent thing and make Milan Baros duck

We owe Xavi a big favour because of the broken leg
But he’ll need to chase the follow up and score with his left peg
And then just to make it interesting He’s ordered extra time
And we’ll see how good them gloves are when Dudek saves it off the line.

We’ve done everything we can to make sure the ball stays out.
But we cannot interfere with the penalty shoot-out.
So Shanks, Bob, Emlyn and good ol’ Pope Johnny Paul
Watched the match in wonder and cheered on every goal

And full time went to extra time with the fans nervously sick
And they waited until the time came for Serginho’s first spot kick
Serghino he missed the goal, and Pirlo’s shot was saved
But Didi and Lord Frodsham proved their nerves were not so frayed

Then Thomason put one in, but Riise missed his shot
Then Kaka scored, and Smicer scored, the atmosphere was red hot
And then almost in slow motion it was time for Shevchenko’s chance
But Dudek had different ideas and did a little dance

Then waited for a second as the ball came flying in
Dived to the right and parried it to save it for the win
And as they down on all the fans and scenes of wild abandon
Em turned to old Pope Johnny Paul and put his arm around him

And said “That was unbelievable, the best game without doubt –
But I thought you said you wouldn’t help with the penalty shoot out?”
John Paul looked up and smiled and said “Look son, it wasn’t me”
And I wouldn’t doubt the word of God in truth and honesty

So Emlyn he was puzzled as the crowd was going wild
But in the corner, on their cloud, Shanks and Paisley sat and smiled.
The moral of the story is that money can’t buy success
And neither can a constant whinge to people in the press

And writing a team off when the clock reaches half time
Might just result in something coming out of the divine
Because Shanks and Paisley knew, as the cup was coming home God
wears the red of Liverpool and we’ll NEVER WALK ALONE!!!

No girly can resist a man who looks good in Speedos

OK Folks,

Summer has arrived and we’d better act fast before it – ahhh shit too late….

I am reminded of a drunken conversation with a woman that I had in a bar (the conversation not the woman) about 3 months ago, possibly more.

Not the first conversation of this nature that I've had and I'm sure not the last - by “drunken conversation” I mean I was the one who was drunk and she was the one conversing.

Now don’t get me wrong – I love this woman to bits – and I’m certainly not going to embarrass her by naming her – just in case this blog really does start to gain momentum and she would actually read this.

She’s Flemish and quite famous around these parts, so her reputation could be tarnished and I wouldn’t want that. If there’s any reputation tarnishing to be done around here, it’ll be me own.

(BTW - have I just attempted to name drop without actually dropping a name? What a bizarre thing to do - and sort of defeats the purpose really, don’t you think?)

Anyway - for you see - drunk I may well have been – it was about 03:00 on a Friday night / Saturday morning, so I feel that it is my right as a human being - nay my moral obligation to be in such a state of inebriation – but I can still recall the crux of the conversation.

“This summer is to be one of the hottest on record in Belgium.” Famous Belgian Lady said to me.

Remember folks, this announcement was made to me over THREE months ago.

This was not the inane ramblings of somebody who was pausing between bouts of relentless howling at the moon. This lady is in her late forties, never drinks or takes drugs (at least not anytime I’ve offered).

So I did the only thing I could do - I took her for her word.

Actually - this isn't entirely true – “experts” had made the prediction and this lady was just repeating what she had heard. But still – it was good enough for me.

I settled down to my beer and dreamt of walks along the long, luxurious sands of Antwerp’s River Schelde (*) with my loved one(**) by my side.

And now, as we approach the last weekend in May, we find ourselves in the middle of a mini heat-wave (does that make it a ‘heat-ripple’ I wonder?) and I’m thinking to myself “This is it – the hottest summer on record is about to start! – time to dig out the old speedos!”

So I go to http://www.weather.com/ and check the 10-day forecast for Antwerp:

"30°C maximum yesterday", "31°C maximum today" but then – hang on a minute! – "Sat. 26°C"…."Sun. 21°C with showers".

But it gets worse: By Wednesday, we’re down to "17°C and rain".

What’s happening?!

It's no wonder I’m running around Belgium at the moment with the heaviest head cold I’ve ever experienced (Just how can one head generate so much phlegm?)

My normally wind and rain-battered Irish body is not cut out for this.

Either we go to hot temperatures or we don’t bother. None of this conflict between “YES – let’s REALLY go for it !!” and “oh no……perhaps we shouldn’t”

Belgium, STOP IT! - You’re doing my sinuses in!!

Cheers.
Sniff….

(*) = Like I said - it was a dream. I wouldn't send the Man United team training on the beach of the Schelde, let alone take a romantic summer's walk along it.

(**) = POSITION VACANT

Turkish Delight

“Loyfe is a Rollercoaster – ya’ jus’ godda royde it”

So sang Dublin warbler and permanent embarrassment to the island of Ireland, Mr. Ronan Keating and for once I agree with the smug prick.

Just where does one start?

Last night’s match was unbelievable, incredible, amazing – all of those things but for feck sake lads – is there any chance you could do it in a less dramatic fashion next time? I, for one, am not sure if my heart can take it any more.

For those of you that don’t know – the game panned out like this:

First half and AC Milan were sublime. First to the ball, accurate in the pass and clinical with their finishing giving them a deserved 3-0 lead.

A shell-shocked Liverpool walked off the pitch at half time looking like a team that was dead and buried.

I had to agree with them.

I spent the half time questioning the sanity of it all – devoting so much of my life to the mighty Liverpool FC. My mum always says “never love something that can’t love you back” My reply has always been “What? – even if the sex is great?”

But you see it’s different where Liverpool are concerned. I know they love me back. Every interview these multi-millionaire athletes give, they’re always on about “It’s for the fans” so they must love me, right?

Although even the most loyal, loving Liverpool fan must have been staring into the abyss during those 15 minutes of half time.

Apparently not.

I phoned my brother back in Ireland.

“Game Over. I’m totally gutted. There’s no way back from this!” I said despondently.

My brother was obviously replaced by some delusional madman:

“ARE YOU SERIOUS??! Where’s your loyalty to the cause? We’ve scored three goals in one half before, we can do it again! Get behind the team – they need your support. Bring on the second half!! We can win this!”

Perhaps my brother and I watched “Escape to Victory” too many times when we were kids.

I shook my head with the knowledge of someone older and wiser. “Oh the innocent folly of youth”, I thought to myself as I retook my seat in the pub’s terrace amongst the hordes watching the game on the TV that had been placed outside specifically for the game.
I went back to the loving embrace of my Corona and my packet of much-abused cigarettes.
“At least the weather is great” I consoled myself.

The second half kicked off.

And what a second half it was.

Within 15 minutes of the restart, 15 minutes that forever will be etched in my (and millions of others) memory, as Liverpool, unbelievably and incredibly scored three goals to bring them back on level terms.

I could not believe my eyes.

I was delirious. I was in ecstasy. I was in a seventh heaven where all around me was a sea of red.

But there were still 30 minutes to go.

Time enough for us to score another 6 at the rate we had started the second half but even my ridiculously optimistic brother wouldn’t have made such a bold prediction. Shortly after the third goal I received a text message from him. It simply read: “I FUCKIN’ TOLD YA!!!”

He had a point.

AC Milan came back at Liverpool, with Liverpool trying to contain the undoubtedly classier Italians. It made for some nervous watching, as I kicked every ball, headed every clearance, lunged into every tackle hundreds of miles away as I watched helpless on the terrace of an Irish pub in Antwerp.

We hung on until the end of normal time, meaning another 30 minutes of agonising torture. Again Liverpool defended like demons, with Milan having more of the ball – although it has to be said that like a couple of heavy weight boxers in the last round of a fight, both teams were dead on their feet from their exertions.

It’s at time like these when men step up and be counted.

Liverpool, stood up last night in that Coliseum in Istanbul and were counted, gladiators to a man.

None more so than their Polish goalkeeper Jerzy Dudek. Much-maligned during most of the season; when, with 5 minutes left to go in the match, he pulled off THE most remarkable double save from European player of the year, Andriy Schevchenko.

It was breathtaking stuff.

Nails were bitten to the quick. Cigarettes smoked to the filter. Coronas necked at an alarming rate.

And then, with two minutes of injury time played, the referee called an end to one of the most amazing games of football I have ever watched. But the drama was only just beginning.

The game was to be decided by the lottery of a penalty shoot out.

Except it’s not a lottery.

There is a technique to taking a penalty and there is a technique to saving a penalty. Liverpool demonstrated both in abundance last night as they rose to the occasion and blasted the Italians away, with more heartache for Schevchenko as it was his penalty miss – or rather Dudek’s brilliant save that lost the game - and the final for Milan.

Cue pure, undiluted joy for millions of Liverpool - and neutral - supporters around the planet.

Don’t underestimate the enormity of this achievement.

This tournament is competed by the best teams in Europe.

All the world’s best players play in Europe, making this the best football tournament in the world. I would even go as far as to argue that it is better than the world cup final, because teams are not restricted by nationality when assembling their squads.

But do you know what the sweetest thing of all was last night?

Watching that famous trophy being lifted up into the Turkish night air by our captain Steven Gerrard. A young man, who as a child grew up ten minutes from Anfield, Liverpool’s famous stadium and he watched his heroes from the stands, dreaming of the moment that he would bring Liverpool back to the glory of being crowned……“CHAMPIONS OF EUROPE”.

Just reading those three words starts to bring it all home to me. And – having won it for a fifth time – we get to keep that famous trophy. Only two other clubs in the history of the competition have achieved that – Real Madrid and, ironically enough, AC Milan.

We are now among the elitist of the elite and we certainly are no gate crashers.

Steven lad – you and the boys did the business. You have now written yourselves into our club’s long, proud history. Shankly would have been impressed and I’ve no doubt he and Crazy Horse, along with the victims of Hillsborough were all watching from above.

LIVERPOOL FC – CHAMPIONS OF EUROPE - YOU’LL NEVER WALK ALONE

The Day of the Big Game!!

Just bloody typical!

It’s the day of the big game – Liverpool v AC Milan in the European Champions League final - and I feel like shit.

20 long, lonely years in a football wilderness I’ve had to wait for this night to come and my reward is to be laid up with a nasty head cold - my throat is sore, my nose is like a broken water main, my head hurts and I’m coughing and spluttering like an old Volkswagen Beetle on a cold winter’s morning.

The first signs of the cold’s imminent arrival occurred on the Sunday evening.

Since then I have tried everything to get rid of it. Early nights in bed, I’ve tried to feed the cold, I’ve tried to sweat it out of me, I’ve popped paracetemol and hot whiskeys, but still to no avail – it’s as bad now at Wednesday lunchtime as it was on Monday morning.

At work, I’ve soldiered on like the trooper that I am but I have to admit that this is more to do with the fact that I am worried about my ability to make it in to work on time tomorrow morning after tonight’s game – especially if we win. Who knows? Perhaps the cold might take a turn for the worse overnight!

To say I’m excited about tonight’s game is an understatement. I was 12 years of age the last time we played in this final, and unfortunately it will be forever remembered by the tragedy that unfolded that night at the Heysel stadium here in Belgium, where 39 people lost their lives.

Let’s hope that tonight’s game will be remembered for a wonderful game of football.

Ach fuck it – who am I trying to kid?! Let’s hope tonight is remembered for a Liverpool win – how we manage it, I really couldn’t give a shit. We’re massive underdogs and rightly so - but a win tonight could happen and one thing’s for sure – head cold or no head cold – I’ll be cheering them all the way!!

COME ON LIVERPOOL!!*

* =
To the non-football fan, I do apologise for the emphasis on football for the past few blog entries. You’ll be glad to hear that tonight’s game marks the end of my season, so the football interest will die down for a couple of months, while I try and fill the void, left by its absence with something else.

Like finding a girlfriend, for example…

Not that I’d share that with you, no matter how discerning you think you may be.

Ah, OK – sure why not? I’ve created this monster, I might as well run with it…

Sweet F.A

Sweet F.A.

Saturday past as some of you may know was FA cup final day and was played between Arsenal (“The Arse”) and Manchester United (“Scum” – or for the sake of this story and a slight bit of political correctness, “ManYoo”).

FA cup final day is a day that brings me back fond memories of being back home in Northern Ireland with my mates, my Dad and his mates sitting in his local pub out in the sticks, watching the big game build up; the game itself and then engaging in our very own post match analysis; just like the BBC but without “Big Ears Lineker”, Red nose Schmeichel, or Alan ‘Captain Scarlett’ Hansen and with a helluva lot more alcohol.

Ashleigh, my long-suffering girlfriend at the time dreaded cup final day because for her, the result was invariably the same – a drunken, comatose boyfriend on cup final evening who was fit for nothing. It only took her a couple of cup final days to cop on and organise a night out for her and her mates on those nights.

Anyway, I was determined that we could have a similar day out in Antwerp, albeit without my mates from home, my dad or his mates. I had plenty of drunken volunteers. Most of whom were Manyoo supporters but I was sure we’d pick up enough ABU’ers (Anybody But United) along the way.

We met for a fry up at 12:30 at ‘Raes’ a fine wee greasy spoon café in Antwerp. Rae our host for the sumptuous meal was there as usual offering his opinions in his thick Scottish accent.

Fed and watered, we headed for the pub, arriving there at 14:00 – perfect timing for the start of the build-up. Drinks flowed, time passed, the game was played until at some stage we were all abducted by aliens, taken from our places in the bar and our brains operated on, before being returned to my position in the pub at 09:00 the following morning.

There are however vague recollections, little snapshots if you will, where the mind-experiments performed by the aliens obviously didn’t work.

These snapshots include: organising a sweepstake for first goal scorer – only for there to be no goal scorer, ordering a pizza delivery for the bar, a Norwegian glam rock band called WigWam, a Moldovan granny banging on a drum, oh yes – and ManYoo losing a game they thoroughly deserved to win (tee hee!)

Who knew celebrating another team’s victory could be so much fun? Let’s hope Liverpool ensures that our season finishes on a high tomorrow (Wednesday) evening.

One things for sure – in the intervening years between watching cup finals back home and watching cup finals in Belgium, if Ashleigh were still on the scene, she’d be begging for the drunken, comatose boyfriend on a cup final evening, compared with the dancing and singing epileptic that seemed to possess my body this year’s FA Cup final….

It's comedy Jim but not as we know it

Friday evening, I went to watch an evening of English-speaking comedy at the ArenbergSchouwBurg (easy for me to type) Theatre in Antwerp. It was to be as part of the "10 days of comedy" festival in Antwerp (http://www.spitspot.be/nieuws_frame.htm).

As is per usual with events organised by David Lemkin's “Standup World”, the standard was very high. There was a good turnout with I would estimate around 300 people at the show. The thing is though, the audience was predominantly Flemish which makes for a rather strange atmosphere at an English speaking comedy night.

Let me explain:

Now I’m not going to have a go at the Flemish and their linguistic abilities – indeed as a man that manages miserably enough to deal with his mother tongue of English, I am going to be the last one to have a pop at the Flemish.

In fact, can I state for the record, that I bow down in reverence at their ability to speak three, four or more languages with the ease that I change hats (if I were to own more than the one tatty Liverpool FC cap that is).
These ‘Flemmings’, or whatever they’re called, must rank as one of the most linguistic competent races on the planet. The fact that an English speaking comedy night could even be thought of being a success only goes to prove this.

Although yet, in spite of everything, I feel strangely compulsed to have a pop. I suppose I have the title of the blog to live up to – I mean what would this blog be, if I didn’t have just a wee pop every now and again?

You see the thing is – British and Irish comedy, is amongst the finest in the world. We all know that. It’s not bragging, arrogance, or even big-headedness, it’s just a pure statement of fact. Perhaps it’s something to do with the island mentality but nobody takes the piss out of us better than ourselves.

Granted, every now and then, the Americans will pull a TV show of great comic brilliance out of their ‘ass’ but for every Simpsons and Friends, there is a dozen “Top of the Class” re-hashes lurking in the shadows.

The whole emphasis of the "10 days of comedy" festival was on Flemish and Dutch comedians, save for the brilliant award-winning Nigel Williams, an English-born comedian who is fluent in Flemish and regularly performs in the language.

However, Friday night was billed as a “very British night” so the audience must have been prepared for a certain amount of piss taking.

Not this audience - it seemed nobody wanted to join in.

Comedians were asking questions but getting no answers back from the majority of the audience.
Thankfully there was a Canadian airline magazine employee sat on the front row who got the brunt of it.
There were a sprinkling of English and Irish in the audience but I think we were too few to have any impact.

Flemish audiences are very well behaved. They like to concentrate and listen to the jokes and it seems that their attitude is “I’ve paid to be entertained, not to be part of the entertainment” a subtle difference to the “Waaaaaaagggghghhhhh let’s get shitfaced and heckle the poor sod up on the stage” attitude that perhaps prevails too often back home.

But something in between would have been nice!

Don’t get me wrong – it was a good night and I’m sure everyone enjoyed themselves - the comedians just had to adjust their acts a bit to accommodate the - at times - cringingly quiet audience.

OK – I’ll get off me soapbox now.