It all started in December 2006 when I was properly mad about anything Liverpool FC and anything that’s got to do with the city of Liverpool. Twenty-seven months down the line, and this is the final post. Not that it will do much difference to you, and let’s face it, it shouldn’t. But this has been a kind of a personal diary, and rather than throwing it in the fireplace I just decided to put it into a box in the attic. The cyber world though allows you to have a peek into it every now and then. Once again, I assume it won’t do you much of a difference, but this was a kind of a challenge for me, and maybe more than that, was somewhat therapeutic. Most times, I probably wouldn’t put my point properly during the autopsy of the match at our club, so this was a good medium. Most posts were simply monologues, but admittedly I used to get flattered when the odd soul told me that he read my posts.

Once a red, always a red. Yes, I think it’s right. Deep down, I am a red, but a fanatic I am no longer. I am disillusioned with everything that’s got to do with football. Or more precisely, with anything that’s got to do with modern football. It’s a replication of everything that’s wrong in the big capitalist wide world. And I just can’t justify myself giving my everything to a football club, that I really believed that is different from everyone else, but at the moment it just feels like any other.

Messrs Hicks & Gillett probably drove me to this situation. But let’s have a stern look at the mirror and admit that we invited this in a way. We wanted a bigger investment. We welcomed them with arms wider than the old Kemlyn stand. Did we expect two Yanks that have football in their blood as much as I have got love for the Mancs, will just invest funds in this club without expecting a fat dividend cheque? You might argue Roman Abrahmovic did that. True. Equally true is we used to sneer at them. They just buy trophies. Do I want to spend my life following somebody else trying to buy a trophy? Or buying a place in next year’s Champions League?

I used to adore every single player that wore the Liverbird. The situation developed into a way that we actually adore the Liverbird rather than the players themselves. But really, they are the main actors of the game. They are the main representatives of the club. The club is remembered for its players. You can’t really love the music if you don’t like the instruments. There was once a time, when players had something in common with the spectators. Now tell me, what you have got in common with the likes of Gerrard and Torres? We support them, or at least we try to convince ourselves that our vocal chords can make a difference to them. Make them run the extra mile. All we do, is help pay their obscene amounts into their bank accounts.

There is no bigger game than the Mancs at Old Trafford. Players are expected to run through brick walls. They are our living legends after all. Looking back, I was one who loved waxing lyrical about some player’s performance. Heroic, godly, and shite like that. Nowadays, I look at them and wince. Take this season for a start and throw the manager into the equation for equal measure. The situation at the club could never help, but these are lads that are still getting paid filthy amounts. Some even, offered extension of their contracts. The performances for most of the season have veered from pathetic to distressing. They have been an insult not only to the paying public, but to every decent worker around the four corners of the world.

It’s the way it goes, you might add. It might be, I know I can’t fight it, but at least I just don’t want to be part of it or even a spectator anymore. I have experiences some incredible highs with this club, mostly through my own madness and obsession. I will treasure them, but I can’t be bothered looking for much more through this. It’s simply a fraudulent high.

The lads went to Old Trafford. The lads meekly gave up. It doesn’t even hurt. And now I know, not only something has changed, but something has died.

This blog is now closed.