SATURDAY starts with decorating, again. How is there still wallpaper to come down? Why hasn’t anyone magically cleared up all the rubble downstairs? Why on earth did I spend so much money on this bricked bastard?
Don’t move house, mates. In fact if you can just stay in your ma’s. We tease our mates who still live at home. They go on about four holidays a year and turn up to every game in designer clothes that someone else has washed and ironed. I turned up on Saturday with a load of ceiling in my ear. Being a grown up is a load of shite.
I bail at 3pm leaving my wife and her family working on the property I will move into some time in 2018. It’s a fair while before kick-off, I admit, but there is the usual ticket jiggery to sort out and I’m absolutely gasping for a pint.
I’ve mentioned ticket jiggery vaguely in every one of these so I’ll go into a bit more detail this time. Stephen Browne, one of the Bray 500 and a big help with our Dublin show too, is over with his mate and was after two tickets. My dad is away so I give him our tickets confident I will pick up another one.
This I do but then I get offered a seat in our partner Red Touch Media’s executive box, because they are all away at a tech conference. Never one to turn down a hot meal, I dive in there. Glenn Price takes my extra ticket because he’s been swerved from the press box for someone more important at ESPN. I’ve also had a message from my bezzie Ben Mac saying his parents are away and the ticket they share is going. Luckily, Jamie who did work experience with us last week is looking for one so I agree to sort that too.
I get Ben’s ticket on Friday night, but the rest of them are with Mick Clarke, for reasons I’m not entirely sure. So I have to bring everyone together in a timely manner and make sure everyone is sorted and paid before I can relax with all my free food. The decision to how to do this is made by Mick Clarke telling me he’s going The Stanley, just down the road from the ground, and if I want him or anything in his pockets I’ll have to go there.
However nothing is ever simple. Glenn can’t find The Stanley. After calling him a thick wool in a variety of ways we learn that it’s actually changed it’s name to The Glenbuck Hotel (Hotel!!!). Sorry Glenn. But eventually we all get together and everything is sorted out and I ‘forget’ to give Mick any money.
Now you see why I normally just say ‘ticket jiggery’. I’m not moaning, though. Other people have it far worse. Rumours are that Andy Heaton sorted out John Henry with his Europa League Final tickets as he didn’t have the credits and Mick Clarke got Fatman Scoop a pair for Man United.
Jamie Carragher is in The Glenbuck. Just casually having a drink with his mates before the game. People say footballers don’t do that any more. Here is a picture someone took of him speaking to Andy whilst I ignore the pair of them to watch Burnley v Everton.
I don’t really ignore Jamie, obviously. He’s brilliant company as ever. He tells a great story about Jürgen Klopp devouring an apple on Monday Night Football and we all go mad when Burnley score in the last minute. Although not as mad as Flanno the Scouse bastard.
The new Main Stand is great. The executive boxes are something else. The one we are in has 22 seats and its own chef. It’s got it’s own bloody bar. Robbo is in with his mate. He’s being all Huyton and feeling very uncomfortable with the whole thing. I’m wondering how many mugs we have to sell so I can go in there every week.
Another nice thing about the box is that, for the match, you are outside in your own gang. There are loads of us from TAW and Red Touch who don’t normally get to go together so it’s a laugh. Robbo makes sure everyone is singing and goals are celebrate wildly enough to lose phones. No prawn sandwich brigade here.
After the game we have to walk to town because Everton got beat. It’s alright though because I’ve nicked some Bourbon from the box so me and Craig Hannan drink it walking through Everton Valley chatting about nonsense. After the pink I meet Ste Browne again and it’s a tempter to stay out with them. However I’m up at 5am for a combination of taking my wife the airport and a brass band contest so I sensibly retire for the night.
Five am still feels shite the next day though. Should have just got hammered. Instead I’m off to Speke Airport, then Rochdale then back to bloody Wickes for more paint. The glamour.
Up the corporate sell-out Reds.