I have only been to Anfield once. It was in 2004. I was treading water back home in SA inbetween the Olympics and the Paralympics in Athens. My mate in London said he could get us tickets to a Liverpool match at Anfield. I converted my flight to Athens to one to London. We drank our merry way around London for a few days, getting particularly cheerful one night when a South African barman in Richmond heard our accents and decided we should get the house discount of £1 for a double Jameson’s. I asked my mate who he had got the tickets from. A friend of a friend, who was called Phil the Murderer. Ah. Yes. Phil. The. Murderer. Phil was an acquaintance of my mate’s usual taxi driver, who was related to my mate’s boss by marriage. The taxi driver, whose name I forget and who will probably prefer me not to repeat it, had told my mate that he had run with a West Ham firm, the organised "hooligans" England was once famous for before Gareth Southgate’s waistcoat. Said taxi driver had a reput...

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