ScouseBlueBoy
Player Valuation: £15m
Stevie’s steely glare perused the wall of blue filth. This was his moment. His perfect moment. The cries, the jeers, the songs – all would be wiped out with a perfect stroke of his foot in this, his perfect moment.
Stevie, too, dared to dream – but he knew he could make his dream come true, in this, his perfect moment.
As the ball sailed into the back of the net, despite the flailing arm of the scumbag in goal, I thought ‘Jesus Christ’. I looked at Brendan. Our manager. The manager of Liverpool Football Club. I looked and I thought ‘Jesus Christ’. Brendan faced the main stand, looking up at the Gods who run Liverpool Football Club. ‘I have done this’, he said. ‘I have done this for YOU, because I am the one and only. Like Cyrus, and I CAN dig it’.
Stevie’s cupped ears, like tulip petals on a crispy April morning, sent the message out loud and clear: ‘All youse detractors – yield to the mighty sword of my foot. And leg’.
I started crying and shaking.
I dared to dream. I dreamt about going to the pub afterwards and waving my willy around the Blue gobbies. Rubbing their noses in it. I dared to dream. I dreamt about going up to children in the Everton replica kits and spitting in their little sad faces. I dared to dream about gloating endlessly – eyes bulging out of a red pickled face – at least until the next derby game.
I kissed the badge on my replica shirt and stroked the Liver Bird on my replica shorts.
Then Jagielka scored.
I changed the channel and threw my Sky remote at the cat.
Stevie, too, dared to dream – but he knew he could make his dream come true, in this, his perfect moment.
As the ball sailed into the back of the net, despite the flailing arm of the scumbag in goal, I thought ‘Jesus Christ’. I looked at Brendan. Our manager. The manager of Liverpool Football Club. I looked and I thought ‘Jesus Christ’. Brendan faced the main stand, looking up at the Gods who run Liverpool Football Club. ‘I have done this’, he said. ‘I have done this for YOU, because I am the one and only. Like Cyrus, and I CAN dig it’.
Stevie’s cupped ears, like tulip petals on a crispy April morning, sent the message out loud and clear: ‘All youse detractors – yield to the mighty sword of my foot. And leg’.
I started crying and shaking.
I dared to dream. I dreamt about going to the pub afterwards and waving my willy around the Blue gobbies. Rubbing their noses in it. I dared to dream. I dreamt about going up to children in the Everton replica kits and spitting in their little sad faces. I dared to dream about gloating endlessly – eyes bulging out of a red pickled face – at least until the next derby game.
I kissed the badge on my replica shirt and stroked the Liver Bird on my replica shorts.
Then Jagielka scored.
I changed the channel and threw my Sky remote at the cat.
