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SO, The Anfield Wrap arranged a winter break for me Copey and Neil. A much needed break designed to reduce our stress levels and ensure we are on peak form for Chelsea on Tuesday. They are good like that; good, concerned employers. Well in, the boys.

So while everyone else was sitting down to a lovely bowl of Wolves at home, me Copey and some lads were on the plane at John Lennon, about to take off when news of the first goal came. Fuck off, lad, it hasn’t even kicked off yet. We landed in Dublin, turned our phones back on to be greeted with the news of the second. Sake.

There is something about the flight to Dublin that my body can’t handle. On three separate occasions I have had to physically hold on to my sausage so as not to piss myself. Awful that, isn’t it? It’s a 40 minute flight for fuck’s sake. How is that possible? So while you were going through the torture of the first half I was experiencing something much, much worse. Or maybe not. Either way, I was like Sea Biscuit when I finally managed to get to the toilet. Glorious.

We got to our hotel, checked in and managed to meet Neil for the last 10 minutes. The Reds scored, should have scored again, and then got beat. Ah well, eh.

I am going to leave it at that. I have no interest, whatsoever in watching it again, reading about it or joining in the cry-arsing and general Blueshite behaviour that is currently going on on Twitter.

Firstly, I’m on my holidays. Secondly, frankly, I don’t care about this three losses in a week bollocks and general appetite for drama and crises that is currently doing the rounds.

Liverpool have struggled a little bit of late. Most of the games within which we have struggled we have played half a side. We can all acknowledge that the squad isn’t yet good enough to compete on all fronts. But why are we losing our minds so much, for fuck’s sake? We play Chelsea on Tuesday night and, for me, it is the biggest game I will have been to in a long time. We beat them and we are right back in it.

LONDON, ENGLAND - Friday, September 16, 2016: Liverpool's captain Jordan Henderson celebrates scoring the second goal against Chelsea during the FA Premier League match at Stamford Bridge. (Pic by David Rawcliffe/Propaganda)

Yes, loads of things will need to happen for us to win the league but why are we so happy to fucking give up on it now?

We struggle when we aren’t playing our first team. We especially struggle when Roberto Firmino, Philippe Coutinho, Adam Lallana and Sadio Mane aren’t all on the pitch together. Guess what, dickhead. The four of them are back fit and available. Why won’t we be boss again when they are all playing?

Anyway, enough of all of that shit. As I said, we are in Dublin. Yesterday was the single greatest day on the ale ever. Think The Hangover but an Anfield Wrap version. They say the Irish are an accommodating bunch but they don’t really like it when people are sick in their boozers. That is pretty fair, really.

Yesterday, after 12 hours on the ale there was a situation. In fairness to Copey, he has a wider issue. He has had to give up lager and as a consequence he flits about thinking he is James Bond drinking all kinds of mad shit wearing a blazer.

Yesterday, blazered up at Leopardstown, he drank white wine all day. All day. Fucking all day. We had 20 pints of Guinness and Copey had 20 glasses of white wine. When he had had too much wine he went on to neat Jamesons, for fuck’s sake. One thing led to another, we somehow ended up in a boozer with an average age like cocoon, Paul Cope sneezed in the middle of the bar, and was simultaneously sick in his own hands. There was a rumour knocking about that he also shit himself, although at this point, some 24 hours later, there is no conclusive proof either way.

He ended up getting barred from every bar in Dublin and going home. He has subsequently questioned his very being. He needs support. More than the Reds at this point.

LONDON, ENGLAND - Friday, September 16, 2016: Liverpool's manager Jürgen Klopp celebrates after the 2-1 victory over Chelsea during the FA Premier League match at Stamford Bridge. (Pic by David Rawcliffe/Propaganda)

Me and Neil batted on and ended up in a karaoke gaff which didn’t open till 11pm. Neil, full of ale, gets up on the stage, talks to the crowd before he starts singing and puts in the karaoke performance of his life. I’m not even messing, it was like The Beatles were playing in 1963. Girls were throwing themselves at him. Someone literally asked him as we were leaving if he was doing another song and when he told them no, they got off.

I know.

It makes no sense.

What is the moral of the story? I don’t know if I’m honest.

All roads lead to Tuesday. Tuesday is all that matters. Between now and then I am going to need some kind of Popeye’s spinach butty. But let me ask you this. If Neil can convince a crowd of 100 hipsters that he is better than Prince, then why can’t Liverpool beat Chelsea and win the league? Nothing makes sense anymore so let’s just win the league.

Let’s go Redmen.

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