A lot has changed since I last wrote about our club.
13/14 was a thing that happened while I was trapped in a flat, terrified to leave, being physically and emotionally abused. Football was the only happiness I had, and when that Chelsea game happened I was crying because it had pulled the rug from underneath me.
I’m here now, getting married next July. I’ve gone from being a teenager, to being a young woman, to being someone in their late twenties, in the blink of an eye. I joined this forum when I was 20; now I’m pushing thirty. Where’s all that fucking time gone?
It’s mad, isn’t it? Time just ticks by, and you don’t realise what’s happening, days speed up into weeks and weeks speed up into months, months become years. Istanbul was literally half a lifetime ago for me; the last pot we won was over 7 years ago.
Can I talk to you about Barcelona? Please, let me talk about Barcelona.
That match was like nothing else. We were all there with realism in our heads but fire in our eyes, not wanting – how could you want anything when you’re 3-0 down – but hoping. Sat there laughing, joking, kidding around but less and less the closer we got to kick-off because there was this weird voodoo creeping into all of us. Voodoo. I’m convinced that’s what Tuesday night was.
I’ll never care about what people think about us again.
When Andrew Robertson clipped Lionel Messi around the back of the head, our local went mad. I think we knew then, in a way – that “we’re not fucking taking this off of yous” swagger thing.
1-0.
2-0.
3-0. I collapsed on the seat and stared into space and my fella thought he must have belted me celebrating, because I was staring at the wall slack-jawed, shaking my head, running my fingers through my hair.
4-0, the tears came.
They’ll never have that. They haven’t earned that. They haven’t actually earned anything, but fair play all the same.
Where are we all going to be on June 1st? I’ll be dashing home from Bootle as fast as possible on the Friday and then seeing where we go from there. There’s been more glamorous ties, but it is what it is.
Who the fuck are Spurs? Who the FUCK are Spurs?
Pretenders. Let’s cast them back from whence they came.
Where do we go from here?
97 points and the CL final?
I reckon we might just go on to dominate football.
You fucking sign on-singing, royal baby-congratulating, Harry Kane-worshipping, pint-throwing Tory gobshites.
Justice.
