The weekend started well enough, although the nice people at East Midlands Railways did their best to scupper all plans by cancelling the first train out to Lime Street and, in a stroke of pure sadistic genius, then sending a two coacher instead of the regulation four coacher an hour later. Yeah, there’s a pandemic. Presumably the missing two coaches had tested positive and were in some sort of self-isolation in the Fat Controller’s house. Somehow, against all odds, Mr and Mrs Zagger made it with enough time in hand to still get to the planned match. She’s a lucky lady ;-)
Booked into the Hard Days Night hotel, motto, “No other music exists” or “You’re never more than two songs away from Across The Bastard Universe” and off for COLFC’s local derby v Marine. First thing for the unwary to note here… COLFC do not play in the COL. Far from it. Not across the universe, but certainly across the Mersey. So, a schlep on the Merseyrail (claiming the lowest rail fares in the UK, you know!) to Hooton station, and then no choice from there but to get a cab to the Vauxhall Motors sports ground, known for sponsorship purposes as the vanEupen Arena. Eleven or so miles out of town doesn’t seem ideal and the plan remains a return to the city, hopefully with a ground to be built in Fazakerley.
Founded as recently as 2015, there’s a lot to like about COLFC: Fan owned - membership with voting right £10 for adults, £5 concessions and £1 children; a seemingly politically correct fanbase with plenty of anti-fascist sentiment amongst the banners; lots of social action, for example a well-established foodbank; a cycling section and a tremendous choice of purple for a kit, presumably reflecting being neither Liverpool or Everton and also a nod to the civic colours. Nice. But not as nice as the very desirable anti-racist 3rd kit!
Having got there, last leg sharing a mini cab with some visiting Marine fans and a gorgeous guide dog, the first thing to clock was the superb facilities. Smart bars, good food, beer, decent cover over a smart stand and terrace, clubhouse with a great view from a balcony. The match itself was rather a disappointment. A howling wind spoiled things. Marine could barely clear the ball into it and COL couldn’t get a grip on it going forwards. It just took every pass racing away from the target. Half time arrived with the scores at 0-0 but COL having had the best of it against their promotion chasing rivals.
A handful of minutes into the 2nd half and Marine, now playing with the gale at their backs, took the lead. I’d love to be able to describe the goal, but it happened just at the point I was giving up on the match and looking for the card of the cab company for an early escape - things to do, hypothermia setting in, people to see back in town and all that. As it happened, we missed three goals, two of them for the visitors.
Back in the City of Liverpool, so to speak, just making it into the hotel in time to meet Pete from the HSA, his daughter, Aimee and for the live singer to start his set in the bar. Opens with… yup… Across the Bastard Universe. Cue a hasty retreat to the hen night madness to be savoured in the Slug and Whatever and from there an increasingly hazy pub crawl, from increasingly glitzy-glam to the proper traditional likes of the White Star And all points in between.
Sunday brought the inevitable hangover, the inevitable zillion plays of ATBU in the hotel and an escape from that for an equally inevitable mooch around the Pier Head and Albert Dock. I miss the old feel of the Pier Head, the proper working ferry and (non working) docks in the 80s, but it has to be said they’ve done a cracking job on it. Much more family friendly to be scoring a skinny mocha and a loaf of artisan bread than a bag of bad skag. So Mrs Z thought, anyway. Some relief from the Beatles too (don’t get me wrong, I like ‘em, but…) with pleasing tributes to the mighty Echo and the Bunnymen (weird that one) and the wonderful Billy Fury.
The nice people at EMR did their best to screw up Sunday with more cancellations, misinformation and general ineptitude, but we just made it back in time to catch Cardiff v Forest on Mapp Top. Frankly, I’d have felt more benevolent towards EMR had they managed to make me miss this one entirely. A strangely out of sorts Forest never got going and it turned into just one of those days. Cue Twitter meltdown from many, who really ought to remember where we were just a few months ago. Inevitably, the doom-mongers online are now wondering where it all went wrong and are roundly slating players who were everyone’s heroes last week. Take a bow particularly Brice Samba, last week’s superhero, and Ryan Yates, who all the professional coaches out there on Twitter now reckon isn’t good enough to be a professional footballer. Which makes it odd that a highly respected, knowledgeable, much loved new manager picks him, I’d say.
That said, perhaps it’s foolish to expect much reason on Twitter. Last week we had folk demanding “Marinakis Out” because they suspected Brennan Johnson might leave. “We want someone who supports our club.” Maybe that’s the guy who dipped into his pockets to the tune of over 20 million last year just to keep us afloat then. Presumably the now-stated intention to keep hold of BJ is a sign that all is well on the FFP front, but people need to remember that we are repeatedly close to being the next Derby. For at least as long as we’re in the Championship, we’re a selling club. Of course, whilst we’re a selling club, it’s harder to get out of the Championship - Catch 22, but that’s the way it is. Unless you go down the Derby route. Owners can’t just launch money at a club, it all has to stack up. Whatever his faults, Marinakis seems to do his bit.
Elsewhere, Twitter is aflame with responses to the audio posted by Mason Greenwood’s girlfriend in which it seems that he is trying to force her to have sex against her will. Rape, I believe is the term. Greenwood denies the allegations, but has been arrested and it sounds totally damning.Disturbing and abhorrent as all that is, there are those defending him. “He’s had a tough season.” “Well… she was his girlfriend.“ And even, “She was happy enough to enjoy his money,” like that makes it OK. In the moral swamp of football, some will overlook everything and presumably believe in some sort of return of droit de seignure, the Feudal right of medieval barons to have sex with any woman they wanted to, most notably on their wedding night. For barons read modern footballers. As long ago as 2017, Jose Mourinho called the majority of modern young players spoilt brats and suggested that they are not nice people or suitable role models. It won’t be all, but perhaps he had a point. Money and power generally corrupt and while people stand by and condone vile behaviour just because someone is good at kicking a ball for their club, we’re not in a good place.
Jai guru deva, om. जय गुरुदेव ॐ
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