EVENING, everyone.

Hope you’re all keeping well.

Here’s Five from Fitzgerald on Liverpool 2 Newcastle 2.

I wasn’t going to do it but then The Anfield Wrap’s Kate Forrester called me a lazy twat and threatened to beat me up.

1) Stranded

A few hours before kick off there was loads on stuff on Twitter dot com about some Everton fan and his kid being stranded in Liverpool because a coach had failed to pick them up.

There were widespread appeals for help and, generally, everyone was desperate to find a way to get them to Wembley.

The dad even said the kid was in tears by the side of the road.

Heartbreaking.

Such was the publicity generated by this tragedy that the boxer Tony Bellew then sent a tweet offering them free tickets for his fight at Goodison:

What a lovely gesture, I thought. They may have missed out on their trip to Wembley but sporting legends, and Tony Bellew, were pulling together to offer solace.

When the stranded father heard about this, he then replied to the tweet to express his gratitude:

“Wow, amazing. Thank you Tiny”

Tiny?

No wonder the coach didn’t pick them up.

Fucking pisstakers.

2) Rob Gutmann bought a round

Just before the game The Anfield Wrap’s Rob Gutmann asked his friend Giulio if he wanted a drink.

Giulio replied: “Cordial”

I said to Giulio:

“What are you drinking?”

He replied: “Cordial”

So I said: “Dear Giulio. I hope you’re well. Can you please tell me what you’re drinking?”

He realised what I’d done, did a face, and then called me a cunt.

I won’t be telling that joke again in a hurry.

3) They drug tested the wrong Kennedy

Can someone test Simon Mignolet for drugs please.

He looks and plays like he’s been smoking the red seal that I used to get off my mate Dave in the ’90s. He might as well come out for the next match in a Pavement t-shirt, some army trousers and then spend the whole game talking to the defenders about classic children’s TV programmes.
Football - FA Premier League - Liverpool FC v Manchester United FC
4) Jonjo Shelvey

He still reminds me of an adult-sized baby that needs to live in the water – except someone has taken him out of the water, put a football kit on him, and told him to run about a bit.

So he waves his arms about, flailing and gasping, because he shouldn’t be on a football pitch – he should be back in the water, 10,000 ft below, where all the other adult-sized babies live in their underwater adult baby world.

I literally would have killed everyone if he had scored the winner.

5) Helen

Disastrously, she wasn’t there today and in her place was some boring fella who was either Welsh or French. I couldn’t tell.

As I left the ground, though, my thoughts turned to her and the short time we had together at the Everton game.

I could spend a life with her you know, grow old and tend an allotment. Maybe even join a local amateur dramatics society and tread the boards in a comedy of manners. She wouldn’t have put up with today, she wouldn’t have let them back in it – she’d have been burning effigies of The Angel of the North and Jimmy Nail after they pulled one back.

She’d have been burning effigies of Rafa at 2-2.

Oh and she would have loved the “cordial” joke. She would laughed her neat little head off.

But no, she wasn’t there. Maybe the church had a function on. Maybe she’s keeping score at a cricket match where her husband bats at five and bowls left arm occasionals when the ball has got some wear and tear.

A husband? Oh, why have I done that to myself?

Or maybe she’s done exactly what I hope she’s done.

Maybe she’s hired a coach and picked up a stranded father and son by the side of the road. She’s sat them down and told them everything will be alright, that she’ll save the day. And she’s set off, the three of them on the coach – three beaming smiles reflecting in the windscreen.

But after an hour, two of the smiles start to fade. Doubt sets in and fear takes over.

The father finally speaks up:

“Er, excuse me. Are you sure this is the way to Wembley?”

Helen, the only one still smiling, replies:

“Wembley? I’m taking you back to North Wales, you bluenose cunts.”

What a woman.

Up the Lovesick Reds

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