Half-past nine 31st August 2012: Clint Dempsey arrives at Spurs Lodge just in time for the transfer window to quiver shut. Ian Ayre belatedly stops offering interns slices of Pizza from boxes he’s cut dick-holes in, and Melwood goes quiet: silence. No more signings. We’re fucked. Rodgers is fucked. Joe Cole is smoking twenty Lambert through his eyeballs because ‘the nicotine gets in your system quicker’. It’s mayhem. LFCTV cut uncomfortably to pictures of Biscan’s cock in the Atatürk changing rooms.
Whilst the season had begun for the rest of the league, it seemed Liverpool still had a few weeks to wait, and now faced the months up to Christmas woefully under-gunned. Still, we prevaricated over Tiki-Taka and lumbered onwards like the walking wallets we are. It was, as you can expect, a typically cheery time.
We couldn’t wait for the Europa League to start: we barely had to. We’d already played fifty-five games by January the previous year. And what reckless abandon we felt as Antonio Di Natale showed up in Zebrette colours and not only shined a light on our lack of forward options, but stretched it out like a funfair mirror. We’re glad to have that kind of European class back at Anfield, but we’ve fonder memories of being able to keep it under wraps.
Udinese was juxtaposed nicely with a grim draw against Stoke, each of their players looking like a bathtub full of feet, and playing like it too. Suarez got a stamp for his troubles, and...