I’ve fallen into another world. A world where everything Liverpool do makes me happy. Surely this is a new world: a parallel universe. It’s never been this way before. Let’s party.
It’s the end of May and the party has begun. We’ve won the league. How does that feel? I’m not sure. How do we celebrate? Not sure of that either. Is anyone? Not really.
Newcastle trudge out of Anfield late on May 11th, defeated, mid table and managerless (Pardew had been sacked for kicking a child in privates a week prior).
Anfield evolves like a transformer into a historic, 45,000 seater party destination. Strobe lights hang down from the canopies and terraces as music blasts from the stadium speakers. It’s against everything the club stands for, but who cares? We’ve won the league. Anything can happen.
Every Liverpool fan in the world has been invited to the celebrations and have been for a few months now. The host: Brendan Rodgers – and what a host he is.
What makes a good host? Well, he organises it, he makes sure everyone is on form and enjoys themselves accordingly. He buys the provisions, he knows when enough is enough and most importantly, he understands he isn’t the centre of the attention – or that he shouldn’t be. Brendan Rodgers is a good host – he’s got everything sorted. Everything’s in place, he’s now just got to watch it all play out in front of him from his technical area.
There were rumours of this party a couple of weeks back- mere hearsay. The odd person was found by the side of the road singing songs of victory in March, but now, in May, it’s rocketed into full-blown Project X style chaos.
This party is crazy; it plays havoc with your mind. The title buffet has been laid across The Kop and people are quickly tucking into the mini sausage rolls and slices of pizza. The dancefloor is packed. No one cares that Ian Ayre’s DJing. They’ve forgotten his January holiday in Ukraine. There are things to celebrate – everyone’s partying together, dancing to the same tune, drinking the same terrible alcohol. No one cares.
We’ve waited years for this party; it’s been a figment of our imagination for a long time. In fact, we’ve been full-time party planners for 24 years; waiting for this moment. Waiting. Finally there’s ecstasy in the air, not just the toilet cubicles.
Late into the night John W Henry parachutes into the stadium clutching Luis Suarez like a prize and smoking an unidentified substance that he picked up from a supplier in North London. Suarez has scored 35 goals this season. Amazing. Player of the year. Well done. We kept him against the odds. Against the clause. Sue us.
Meanwhile at the other end of the stadium, Daniel Sturridge is dancing in his own distinct style with the masses. It’s the largest simultaneous wavy-arm dance in history. It looks terrible but it’s brilliant. Everything is brilliant in this moment.
But then Ian Ayre fades the music down accidentally and the party looks to stop, but no – we’ve compromised on Ayre fuck ups before – the alcohol-fuelled crowds take this opportunity to erupt into a rousing chorus of You’ll Never Walk Alone. The realisation kicks in as Steven Gerrard lifts the trophy again. He’s done it. We’ve done it. Premier League Champions.
I may be getting ahead of myself, but don’t blame little old me. Little old Harry Hugo. Don’t blame me. Blame Liverpool. They are making me dream. Making me invent things that aren’t possible. Anfield as a transformer. Ian Ayre a disc jockey. Steven Gerrard lifting the Premier League trophy. Are they possible? Everything’s possible. This season has proved that more than anything.
It’s March and I’m there. I’m with you and I’m thinking the same thoughts.
No matter who you are, no matter what you’re doing, grab a mini sausage roll from the buffet and get dancing: it’s only the start of the party and there’s plenty more alcohol to drink…
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