THE joys of British Summer time, eh?
I don’t know about you but fucking hell, it seems like a very long time since The Reds beat Middlesbrough and everyone was singing about Gini Wijnaldum and Willy Wonka and that.
I mean, what are you meant to do to pass the time apart from think about The Reds? Other sports are pretty much shite aren’t they? Tennis is all well and good in the park and that but who wants to watch a gang of mings gorging on strawberries and cream like it is some rare delicacy that can’t be bought at the top of their street, singing some jarg song if it rains while wildly clapping two fellas hitting a ball over a net? I’d go as far as to say that if you want an insight into why this country is so shit, the majority of the answers can be found at Wimbledon.
So what have we all been up to instead of watching The Reds? I think the answer is probably something close to flapping like fuck over whether some barber or lecturer from Egypt, Holland, or anywhere with a foreign-sounding name is going to tweet about a transfer that he knows absolutely nothing about and repetitively checking our phones until that particular itch has not so much been scratched, more tickled with a vague feather until we end up filling in the blanks. The transfer season is genuinely amazing.
I was a massive fan of Liverpool’s early transfer strategy this year which seemed to focus on simultaneously alienating as many people as possible while pulling our own pants down to give ourselves a good and repetitive buggering.
In an era of instant communication the only thing The Reds could have done any differently to piss off Southampton and absolutely fuck themselves in the process would have been for Jürgen Klopp to Facey live his meeting with Virgil van Dijk and stream it on the gable end of Matt Le Tissier’s four-bed terrace.
It was a stunning approach akin to a shoplifter bouncing into The Asda with a massive pair of MC Hammer style foil-lined kecks on, being struck down with some kind of truth-telling superbug as he walked past the security guard shouting at the top of his voice that he was going to slot three legs of lamb and 48 AA batteries in his left trouser leg and 250 nodders and an electric toothbrush in the other before doing it, getting caught, apologising and then going back in the next week with the same kecks on and trying to keep a straight face.
Fair play to Klopp, though. If that was me I’d have jibbed it, but he wasn’t arsed, he just went to Ibiza and lashed an umbrella hat on. What a man. Maybe we can all take a leaf out of his book? It’s not as if everyone else in the league has done anything to unduly worry anyone.
Manchester United have signed a fella from Everton for a fortune who would struggle to trap the moon if it was coated in a mixture of No More Nails and overcooked porridge and sent crashing down to Old Trafford.
Chelsea are swapping the evil genius Diego Costa, who would get in any side in the league, for some kid who has played for some of the best teams in the world now and again but has scored less goals in his career than Charlie Adam has had meals without a fried egg side, while managing to piss their manager off by not signing the moon trapper to such an extent that he is going to jib it next summer.
Which brings us on to Everton. I mean, really and truthfully they are none of our business, are they? They are that far behind us that worrying about their transfer business would be a bit like getting upset that West Ham had signed that little peahead who used to play for United.
That said, there appears to be a narrative knocking about that they are now a direct competitor to The Reds who we should be worried about. I don’t know about anyone else but selling your two best players and signing an array of baldy plodders while breaking even doesn’t really do it for me.
Their goalie will be sound, mind. That is if they change the rules to no overhead height or he gets massive shoes like Tom Cruise. I’m looking forward to their slow realisation that their billionaire is all kecks and no undies, they have to fold because they haven’t got a pitch when their dock moves falls apart and Goodison catches a dry rot infestation from a mixture of three parts Wayne Rooney’s jarg hair, two parts Sly Stallone’s slobber and a sprinkling of bitterness and bile.
So why the fuss, Reds? Why the anxiety? The Reds will sign some players, possibly two first-choice belters possibly some other belters. Either way, we will be sound. Our squad is well stronger than it was last year; there’s no Sadio Mane break, Jordan Hendo’s fully fit, Mo Salah is better than John Barnes in his pomp, Marko Grujic looks like he has been in the gym all summer, we have got a left-back who wouldn’t ride on the back of a goat if given the chance, Dan Sturridge is doing a pre-season for the first time ever and we’ve got two of the best talents we have had since Michael Owen came through in Ben Woodburn and Trent Alexander-Arnold.
We have also got a manager who will find solutions to a range of problems by being open minded, optimistic and ultimately unmoved if we aren’t able to sign our top targets. Blame Fenway Sports Group all you want for a lack of spend in the transfer market but Klopp is clearly someone who values certain attributes in players and isn’t willing to fuck about spending money for money’s sake.
Unfortunately this is almost the direct opposite mindset to the majority of fans who demand everything now and more. It was FSG’s fault that we didn’t sign Alexandre Lacazette when the manager had no interest in him and didn’t fucking want him. Should we have bought him anyway and not fucking played him?
The conspiracy theories knocking about where FSG purposefully fucked up the van Dijk transfer because they didn’t want to spend money is a bit mad you know, lads. Was it badly handled? Absolutely. Should we learn from it and do things differently in the future. Deffo. Are we purposely killing deals to save money? Come on, eh. Fucking grow up.
The constant cryarsing and moaning about transfers and the time it takes to get them done is also a bit mad. The Salah deal was labelled a transfer saga by all and sundry with the club copping for all kinds of shit yet it took about three weeks from our first bid to us having him signed up and doing the ‘Alan Pardew looking at the dance floor’ lean at Melwood.
For clarity’s sake here is the definition of a saga: “A long, involved story, account, or series of incidents.”
It’s more of a simple tale, maybe a poem or a limerick:
The Reds made a bid for Mo Salah.
His club said he’s not for sale, la.
We said go ‘ed.
He will be boss in red.
And they said alright then, he is for sale and he’s yours for €42 million based on today’s exchange rate which is about £36.9 million or thereabouts, lad.
Needs a bit of work that I know, but you get the jist.
So can we all just relax a little bit and, I don’t know, see what happens? Maybe give our mates a call and have a bevy or go the beach and listen to some boss music and put an umbrella on our head and have a dance? Lash the Joe Goddard album on and turn Twitter off for an hour. See how it feels. Go on.
I know what I’m going to do.
“Eh, John Henry. For fuck’s sake, lad, will you sign Marco Reus you soybean-trading bellend.”