My big fat Scouse weekend

By Emerald Gao
Written on February 26, 2007

Scousers. For every ounce of wit in their bones, there's two more of hospitality. The old man I met at the Shamrock Pub last Thursday, John, showed up at Shanks Bar at two pm, just like he said he would. Apparently his skeptical Mancunian friends had bet him that I wouldn't show up, so I hope he collects a few quid from them. The entire family are Reds, right down to his little nephew Liam, which makes me jealous, a bit, because no matter what troubles they go through, or fights they have, Liverpool FC will always be a rallying point. I wish I had that kind of bond with my family.

Anyway, I'd already had a half pint of Carlsberg, which tastes like water (dear LFC, please change your sponsor to a better beer -- how about Guinness?), so after they downed a quick pint or two, we left for the stadium. Which was, no joke, swarming with people looking for spares. Even the season ticket holders were surprised, but we chalked it up to timing, since the huge win in Barcelona meant that no one wanted to miss this game. John was a true gentleman; he stayed five minutes after kickoff in a last-ditch effort, but eventually I told him to go get his seat, and I headed next door to the Albert.

The atmosphere there is fantastic, as promised by all the tales regaled by locals, but the problem is, there are only two screens -- one is linked to a projector, so the quality is a bit shite, and the other is your average bedroom-sized tv. Being small, I did manage to squirm up front for a better view, but the Albert seems to be more for the OOTers these days anyway. Which doesn't prevent it from having a magnificent atmosphere, thankfully. We sung the Sami Hyypia song, the Ste' Gerrard song, "We all dream of a team of Carraghers," FOAR, and of course, YNWA.

It would have been a great match to watch live -- Crouch bleeding! Robbie Fowler scoring twice at the Kop end! Mascherano's wonderful debut! -- but I'm not too disappointed. Between Sheff Utd and Barcelona, I think I still got the better deal (although Anfield itself still remains a dream).

After the match John and I went back to Shanks to have drinks with everybody. I chatted with Liam and showed him my pictures of the away fans at the Barcelona match; with the adults, I discussed Mascherano, the upcoming schedule, and the American takeover. John had to leave early to drive back to Manchester, but he said he'd send an e-mail the next time he was in Chicago (he buys and sells blues and jazz records for a living). Maybe I'll take him to the Globe -- I kind of miss that place.

The nicest thing happened to me that afternoon: A random old man in the bar gave me a pin (see below). I told him I wasn't exactly "Born a Red," but he insisted. He told me that he'd just bought this one because he gave his old one to his dead friend's wife after the funeral, and I nearly burst into tears on the spot.

YNWA, good sir. John's brother and sister-in-law drove me back to the hostel. While getting out of the car I told them they were all fantastic people, and I've never meant anything more.

That was Saturday. Friday afternoon, I stopped by the LFC museum for a good few hours. The exhibits aren't really spectacular -- mostly artful renderings of past glories, as you would expect. They do have a screening room showing a history of the Kop and the 2005 CL Final in its entirety, though, and the CL trophy is magnificent. I laughed silently to myself the entire time I was looking for the dent that Milan Baros put in it -- it's small, but it's definitely there.

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