Most of this week was spent waiting on some very significant news. It’s a peculiar form of existence, waiting. Obviously, one has to press on with the mundanity of daily existence but always with an awareness that if that news is unfavourable, then the time doing those routine things would have been infinitely better spent running up a spectacular bar tab in Tijuana and going out in style. When it eventually came, the news was bad, but not book the tickets to Mexico bad. Just, let’s see what happens I suppose bad. The result? More waiting. Stasis.
It struck me often, over recent days, in my less solipsistic moments, that that all of you lovely readers and listeners are being put through a very similar trial by our beloved Liverpool Football Club. We are all like Vladimir and Estragon in that Samuel Beckett play. Every match, every season we come back. Always hoping that things will be different, that the Godot of league success will finally arrive, but knowing, really, that more waiting is the probable outcome.
Like Didi and Gogo, at any stage we could just walk away, take up a constructive hobby, like carpet bowls perhaps, and make ourselves feel valid, worthwhile and not dependent on something which we can’t control. But we don’t. We endure. We come back. We hope. We wait. We’ve been waiting since 1990. Talk about the Theatre of the Absurd. He was more of a cricketer, but Beckett would definitely be a Red. He’d just get it.
Have you noticed how this season Liverpool are helping other club’s to end their long periods of waiting? I’ve genuinely lost track of the amount of times a commentator has informed us pre-match that Team A has not scored or won at Anfield or against the Redmen since Year B, only for our considerate lot to generously help them end that run. Sunday’s match against West Bromwich Albion has another delightful stat attached to it. Did you know that The Reds have not won away from home against a Tony Pulis-managed side in the Premier League?
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