PDA

View Full Version : Your Average League Match at Anfield (Can probably be applied to other stadiums LOL)



Hij
4th August '08, 02:18 AM
Wanker Hats, face-paint, cheap flags, skin-tight t-shirts on overweight men who probably come from Surrey and earn way above the national average and should therefore know better… you’re here. The Walton Breck Road.

“Got any spares?” a scrounging git who probably hasn’t even bothered at even looking to get one prior to today asks, as you ignore him and walk towards your destination. Another person approaches “Do you know where the Shankly statue is, guv?” You send him to the Anfield Road End and roll your eyes as he leaves.

There’s no place like home. Bacteria burgers, pints that taste like piss in pubs like saunas and chippys that wouldn’t know a good sausage dinner if one came up knocked the tray of earthy chips, disgusting sausages and cold gravy, complete with shitty plastic fork, out of their hands and slapped them in the face.

You walk in towards the turnstiles and a steward, complete with orange jacket, comes towards you as if he’d recognized you from a Wanted Poster. He checks your ticket and you pass through the turnstiles. The queues for overpriced pastries and piss pints are too long for you to bother so you pass through the double doors.

The players are knocking the ball about, George is playing the shittiest track currently in the charts and the ground is filling up. You walk up to the steps just knowing you will be sat next to the annoying lad with the plastic horn who ought to grow up. You’re not wrong. In front of you, you have a man and woman with their arms round each other. It’s a pose more at home at a screening of the latest Hugh Grant movie. You wouldn’t mind but the woman has more sovereign rings than teeth and the man should be told long, grey hair isn’t pretty for anybody. To the other side of you is David Hockney. He’s managed to zoom in on Gerrard’s face from over 100 yards away with a £700 digital camera he won’t put away until the final whistle.

The ground is now pretty much full, but you can predict – just like earlier – that the one who looks as if he has escaped from a mental asylum walking up the stairs with a cheese roll will be sat behind you. He is.

The names are read out and Gerrard gets the loudest cheer from all the fanboys who have his poster on their bedroom wall.

George sticks YNWA over the tannoy. This is the cue for the masses on The Kop to lift up their mobile phones and record it so they can show their mates it later. It’s mumbled, but you can clearly hear the three Irishmen a couple rows down singing “don’t be afraid of the lark” as they lift up their Irish flag complete with Liverbird in the white strip. The mental patient behind you appears to be enjoying himself as hemurders the song, before screeching “c’mon Redmen” right down your ear.

The game starts and The Kop is taunted because of how quiet it is. The away fans think they are being terribly original. They’re not. The game itself has very few exciting moments, as the opponents have only come out with the intention of parking a bus in front of the goal. The game eventually ends 0-0, the boos are undeniable and then the culprits go home and laugh at Newcastle doing the same on Match of the Day.

After shuffling and stalling in a crowd of BO, you finally get out and back to your car. You switch on the radio. Dave from Birkenhead, who never went to the game, thinks Rafa should be sacked. Hans, the Norwegian, disagrees and thinks Liverpool will win every trophy we enter.