Crying And Shaking

[ScouseBlueBoy]

I am crying and shaking right now.

My mind was in turmoil after leaving the Elysian Fields where the Cherubims and Seraphims in Red tried to cross the Rubicon only to be thwarted by Saruman and his team of Orcs.

Seeing Luis in his shirt and tie looking ever so smart made me cry. When I see his face it’s like getting butterfly kisses from Kelly Brook whilst listening to Celine Dion.

Our performance was almost perfect. One or two little tweaks that only hindsight can bring, and we would have won 9-0.

Then inspiration struck. Superman can turn back time. I saw it in that film. The one with Superman in it. I WOULD TURN BACK TIME TOO!

I would turn back time to the moment that Brendan Rodgers arrived at Avalon. Just after breakfast. How would I do this? By walking anti-clockwise around Anfield, rather briskly lots of times.

So I walked. And walked. And walked.

The sun was starting to hide its face in shame, but my legs did weary not a jot.

People walked past with their chips and bottles of pop, oblivious to what I was trying to achieve for my team of gladiators.

Darkness was readying her arms for the evening embrace and my pilgrimage persisted in sweet determined solitude.

No one stopped to ask me what I was doing. To them I was just a man walking alongside Mount Olympus as daylight bid adieu.

Then, out of nowhere, a little old man appeared.

“What de ye think ye are deein laddie?” He said. In Scottish.

I patiently explained to him what I was doing. I did this very slowly because he was old and his hearing probably wasn’t all that it was when he was young. I find it’s best to do things like that. I am a nice person. I am a Kopite.

“Awwww” said he, “Ya dinnae wanna dee that laddie. What’s dun is dun. All for the best me wee bairn. Dinnae rip ya heart in tee aboot it. Get behind ya tim. Gang hame tae ya loved ones. Be proud that yarra redman. Next year we’ll win…. EVERYTHING”.

And with that he dissolved into the dusk.

In my lonely room I sat alone in solitude. I looked through my old Liverpool Football Club annuals, somewhat listlessly. Flicking the pages over one by one. Looking for – I don’t truly know WHAT I was looking for. Comfort? Succour? A reality check?
And THEN…

I started crying and shaking.

There was a picture of a man, arms outstretched. An old man. And, as I read the writing underneath the picture – a SCOTSMAN! His name was Shankly. Bill Shankly.

I felt such a fool. I had only ever seen him as a statue before. I thought he had passed to the Great Melwood in the Sky.

It seemed oh so real.

Maybe it was.

And so I sit alone.

Crying and shaking.

 

[Pat's Van]

haha, can you put all of them in this thread mate ? I wanna read them again

 

[ScouseBlueBoy]

haha, can you put all of them in this thread mate ? I wanna read them again

Nah, can't be arsed.

 

[Pat's Van]

red jelly, kopite jelly

 

[Reidy's Bottle Of Grecian]

tbh, I didn't find the initial 'Crying & Shaking' thing (that someone from here did) with the niece from N-le-W to be amusing at all. In fact I found it to be a bit embarrassing, and the fact that it was posted on here on an 'open' part of the forum doesn't reflect very well on this place at all.

I found it to be disturbing actually.

 

[Eric Djemba-Djemba]

Haha, crying and shaking gets me every time.

 

[Kurt.]

*RAWK likes this

 

[Pat's Van]

tbh, I didn't find the initial 'Crying & Shaking' thing (that someone from here did) with the niece from N-le-W to be amusing at all. In fact I found it to be a bit embarrassing, and the fact that it was posted on here on an 'open' part of the forum doesn't reflect very well on this place at all.

I found it to be disturbing actually.

do you mean the one where he humps the pig ?

 

[Reidy's Bottle Of Grecian]

do you mean the one where he humps the pig ?

Yeah that one, didn't find it amusing in the slightest as the subject matter (albeit fake) was a young child.

That kind of stuff may have been the norm on kipper but posting it on here drags this place down to that level.

 

[turner]

Poe's law, named after its author Nathan Poe, is an Internet adage reflecting the idea that without a clear indication of the author's intent, it is difficult or impossible to tell the difference between an expression of sincere extremism and a parody of extremism

 

[Pat's Van]

Yeah that one, didn't find it amusing in the slightest as the subject matter (albeit fake) was a young child.

That kind of stuff may have been the norm on kipper but posting it on here drags this place down to that level.

the jimi hendrix one was good, where the wind cried "shankly" haha

 

[ScouseBlueBoy]

I think I misjudged the last one somewhat and apologise for any offence caused. It was certainly not my intention. There's a lot of depth and motivation in my writings that are often only apparent to myself. I was alluding in a vague way to an incident I witnessed in the lower Bullens in the 70s. A father with his VERY young son (all bedecked in Liverpool gear) were watching the derby. An Everton player got injured and was receiving treatment. The young son leapt to his feet and started singing 'Die you b*****d die!" The father looked proudly on at his son, a little smile on his face.

That is very much a form of child abuse. I was alluding to the fact that for some NO age is too young to be 'corrupted' when it comes to hate (and football). Too esoteric for my own good at times, and, again, I apologise for any offence.

I had already acknowledged that to myself, hence the different nature of the latest epistle.

 

[Mikey_Fitzgerald]

I think I misjudged the last one somewhat and apologise for any offence caused. It was certainly not my intention. There's a lot of depth and motivation in my writings that are often only apparent to myself. I was alluding in a vague way to an incident I witnessed in the lower Bullens in the 70s. A father with his VERY young son (all bedecked in Liverpool gear) were watching the derby. An Everton player got injured and was receiving treatment. The young son leapt to his feet and started singing 'Die you b*****d die!" The father looked proudly on at his son, a little smile on his face.

That is very much a form of child abuse. I was alluding to the fact that for some NO age is too young to be 'corrupted' when it comes to hate (and football). Too esoteric for my own good at times, and, again, I apologise for any offence.

I had already acknowledged that to myself, hence the different nature of the latest epistle.

ScouseBlueBoy

GOT's resident tortured artist

 

[ScouseBlueBoy]

ScouseBlueBoy

GOT's resident tortured artist

Now THAT's my sense of humour. Love it. x

 

[FTY]

I am crying and shaking right now.

An award savagely stolen by a cheat, Luis sat at home caressing his beautiful children to his busom.

Crushed as his name was booed when read out. Screaming inside at the injustice, like that doctor who helped James Wilkes Booth after he shot Abraham Lincoln. Only doing his job.

Runner up. No doubt he would have won if any black players had voted for him. Of course, the lying media led by the Old Trafford Leviathan saw to that.

All this on a day when Evra tried to strangle Walcott and got away with it.

Luis has never been sent off. Think about that. Never been sent off. The corrupt FA, eyes like hawks, looking for the slightest excuse to trash the Uruguayan Icarus, could not find one single action which would justify sending Anfield’s own Martin Luther King for an early bath.

Think about that.

When you go to bed tonight, think about that.

When you sip your Horlicks in your cosy little world, Luis will be kissing his children and soaking his pillow with tears of a good man wronged. Like Tom Selleck in that film An Innocent Man. Or that Billy Joel song.

Think about that.

I am crying and shaking right now.

On Sunday my 8 year-old niece from Newton-Le-Willows came round with her mum, my wife’s sister. They were always sending us little snaps on Facebook of her in her little Man Utd top. I thought I would make a stand like only a man steeped in the Shankly tradition could. Only those who know, know how I would feel. And do feel. And will always feel.

I wasn’t going to let that little get bully and intimidate me in my own home. I am stronger than that. We are all stronger. The fireballs of fury that have blasted our souls for almost 30 years have seared a hardness in us that the strongest of the Spartans would envy. Gerard Butler would say “This Is Anfieldl” and kick himself in the face.

Sure enough, little Mary arrived with her mum for Sunday dinner. As she entered the room a huge poster of Luis Suarez hung over the table from the ceiling and rested before her face – his majestic glare caressing her features as she would feast on the food of the guilty. My food. Kopite food.

Her hand raised to point but she changed her mind. Too damned right. She understood. Keep it shut and suck it up.

I said ‘Do you want some EVRA?’ and offered her a slice of black pudding. She looked at my face for a trace of humour. She may as well have looked for the soul in a Bitter. I was not joking. I am not John Bishop. She said ‘No thanks’. She understood.

When it was time for the main course, the pig carcass was wheeled in.

“Hello Fergie” I said. To the pig. I got a dirty big fork and stabbed it hard – all the while glaring at Mary. It was all she could do to make eye contact. She understood. She knew and said nothing. Damned right. Couldn’t even look me in the eye when I was stabbing the Manc swine.

The meal was consumed in silence. Mary didn’t eat much. Hard to swallow when racked with guilt isn’t it!

Time for the jelly. Red jelly. Kopite jelly. The real deal. I wanted to grab her by the neck and shove her face in it, but one of us has to show class and dignity and it wouldn’t be that spiteful madam.

I grabbed hold of the remains of the pig, threw it on the sofa and humped it. All the while glaring at Mary - like Richard Gere in that film ‘Internal Affairs’ where he does that to Andy Garcia (I think). I mean bonks Andy Garcia’s missus and looks at him and smirks. Think it was him – or some other bloke. Anyway, that’s what it was like. Just like that.

We all decided it was time for them to leave. I had made my point. There was nothing she could say. I had proven beyond all reasonable doubt that Luis Suarez is an innocent man and SAF and Evra are scum. She left in silence with her mum.

I think that tells you all you need to know.

I think Mary will consider supporting the Anfield Red Men from now on.

You see, that’s what being an ambassador of our fabulous Football Club is all about.

Class and dignity.

I am reading back what I have just written for you.

I am crying and shaking.

I am crying and shaking right now. Luis the Beautiful – his tiny sparrow heart paradiddling against his breast – he KNEW he had to try something. Anything.

Ivanovic the Thug thrust his arm towards our God in an obscenely vulgar gesture of petulance. Luis, with benign divinity graciously forgave the Visigoth and kissed his arm in glorious beatification. Ivanovic in fear of the Lord of Anfield jerked his arm into Luis’ mouth.

Luis couldn’t breathe. His eyes bulging, he fought for breath. Casting the foul-tasting arm away, he reeled towards the Kop. His DaVinci-esque features distorted into a gargoyle aberration. How we wept to see him so.

No comforting arm was placed around his stooping shoulders. Luis cried alone for an instant. Then the epiphany. We are LIVERPOOL FOOTBALL CLUB.

He would never walk alone. He knew that.

Imagine being Luis right now. He is probably crying and shaking too.

Much wronged like Andy in Shawshank. We should be his Morgan Freemans only white. We will give him the metaphorical little hammer and Holy Book to hide it in.

We cannot lose this moment or this man.

I would kill myself, but I can’t stop my hand from shaking long enough.

YNWA J4LS

Here you are Pat.