WE GO AGAIN
KEVIN McCALLUM: Oh that my forlorn Liverpool jersey could tell tales
I have two Liverpool shirts. One of them is currently hanging off the edge of my desk; just an old jersey standing in front of a boy, asking it to love him. I do. But I don’t know if I can wear it. I want to. I want to pull it on and head down to Giles, my local, and wait for the barman to ask me about the Champions League semifinal on Wednesday night. I’d tell him I roared, grimaced and paced. I’d tell him how I held back on the swearing because the missus asked me to, and because there are young children living next door to us and the damn sound seems to travel quicker in our street. I’d tell him how I stayed at home instead of meeting up with other Liverpool fans at the Colony Arms as I was too nervous and needed to be by myself — just me and thousands on Twitter. I would tell him that I had needed a beer at half-time, but instead opened a bottle of whiskey from Northern Ireland called Quiet Man. It does not do what it says on the label — well, except for a bit later, when my hea...
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