Declines and Falls

Greetings, gentle readers.
I’ve decided to spice this article up a bit with links, so that if anything seems vaguely interesting or intriguing, you can always find out more. Or you could end up with a happy “easter egg” which not only provides substantiation and evidence, but also an interesting perspective that may change the way in which you view the topic or subject at hand. Have more fun than you would ordinarily enjoy whilst reading my vapid and anodyne prose.
A friend of mine recently commented that she has uncovered written, solid and empirical evidence that her current students are unable to hold a proverbial candle to her students of a decade ago in terms of critical and analytical thought. Producing papers and essays which her students have produced in response to identical questions relating to identical course content, she is able to substantively advance the argument that the youth of today have a pronounced tendency to slip downward in terms of the hierarchical levels described by Bloom’s Taxonomy.
The knowledge level hasn’t actually deteriorated, and neither have the abilities to retain, remember and regurgitate bits of factual information. The rot that has afflicted this generation’s cognitive skills becomes evident when examining the capacity of secondary-school students to construct and defend arguments, as well as the ability to apply abstract concepts to practical scenarios.
It seems as though there is an intellectual sea-change afoot. Are there cultural forces at work which celebrate and promote the lower levels of intellectual sophistication? If one looks at recent cinema, the Academy Awards are replete with plaudits, kudos and Oscars for such films as “I Am Sam”, “Forrest Gump”, “The Other Sister”, “Rain Man”, and “Switchblade.” The concept that one can function with a reduced intellectual capacity and still be celebrated as an honourable and decent individual is a commendable one when dealing with the handicapped/differently-abled/politically-correct-euphemism-du-jour.
For further cinematic discussion along those lines, you may want to visit Ann Althouse’s Blog HERE.
The problem which emerges is that when the concept of simpleton as hero or heroine or source of a humble and pure clarity of purpose becomes allied with a basic sense of political impact, the repercussions can be severe. The elevation of the intellectually disadvantaged to the status of “society’s repositories of honest virtue” also implies that the intelligentsia and the folks with all that fancy book-learnin’ are duplicitous and subversive slime using their mysterious and elitist powers for selfish, anti-patriotic, and manipulative purposes.
Democracy is all about Liberty, Fraternity, and Equality, isn’t it? The game isn’t fair if some people are able to understand the system more readily. Justice would seem to indicate that those members of the herd which can’t keep up intellectually with the rest of us should get an extra helping hand so that we can all contribute equally to our society and community. The flip side of that is argued (although from two very different perspectives) by both Kurt Vonnegut’s story (and later film) “Harrison Bergeron”, and the Pixar film “The Incredibles”. If the objective is to make everyone equal, and we can’t make people any MORE intelligent, the only way to level the playing field is to LESSEN the intelligence of the gifted,
It is not merely idealism that leads us to the ideal of the homogeneously mediocre population, but also political expedience. William Shakespeare’s “Julius Caesar” indicates that an unintelligent and unquestioning populace is a great boon to the maintenance of power by the powerful. Caesar pointedly opines:
“Let me have men about me that are fat;Sleek-headed men and such as sleep o' nights:Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look;He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.”
(Julius Caesar, Act I, Scene ii)
Tyrants and despots despise critical thinkers, and with good reason. The construction of a logical and reasonable opposition to the regime requires a concerted analysis, followed by a structured criticism and a creatively synthesised alternative, as well as a fully conceived methodology for the transition of power. Caesar’s fat and satisfied people are less likely to find the motivation or the intellectual wherewithal to criticise the powers that be, and thus unlikely to effect any sort of political change.
In the same way that Hamlet preceded and to some measure inspired existential thought, Julius Caesar preceded G. W. F. Hegel’s concept of the “Last Man.” Francis Fukuyama argued this quite eloquently in his book “The End of History and the Last Man.” Hegel posited that when all of the essential needs of humanity were met, eventually the value systems held by individuals and society would atrophy into decadent and materialistic ones, and the desire to improve and innovate would fade into the mists of history.
So if the indicators are that middle-class torpor has begun to stunt the growth or influence of thymotic factors of student behaviours, then we have begun the decline into self-indulgent decadence. Amongst other endeavours, poetry will transform from transcendent reflection and incisive commentary into cliché tripe and insipid, saccharine-sweet sentimentality. We have already begun the slide from poignant to pointed, and it appears that the slope leads to the realm of the pointless. That’s tragic.
Are we doomed? Are we destined to fall inexorably into the same problem as the Roman Empire of antiquity — once all of those in power and with vested interests in the status quo have established a situation to their benefit wherein the remainder of the populace cannot stir themselves to even the vaguest of discontent, the status quo becomes the objective, not the platform for a greater edifice. It’s panem et circensis until the Vandals come.
I won’t be so melodramatic as to suggest that a penchant for factoids has superseded the necessity for critical and interpretive thought, or that there is some form of sinister conspiracy to mould a tepid, yielding, and unquestioning electorate by some secret government agency. I’ll leave such paranoid ramblings to Noam Chomsky.
What I can surmise is that popular culture as we know it celebrates banality, linear thinking, obedience, patriotism, and conformity. Initiative and independent thought are implicitly relegated to the level of aggravated child molestation. The practical upshot of reality TV and amateur talent shows pervading our popular media is something akin to Arthur Miller’s “Death of a Salesman.”
The protagonist becomes a tragic figure because he has based his system of values on what he thought society demanded for success. Ultimately, what Willy Loman has adopted as his core values prove to leave him adrift, and isolated from the world of others.
In short, if one is told the rules of the game, and one plays it according to those instructions, it is not unreasonable to expect some modicum of success. The current rules of the game as they are dictated by the mouthpieces of cultural authority — television, film, music, etc. are that the only ingredients necessary for meaningful achievement and accomplishment are stick-to-it-tiveness and the blind, mindless adoption of a common moral and ethical system. Shut up, wave your flag, listen to Britney Spears, trust in the judgement of established authority, and the system will reward you appropriately. Follow, consume, obey, and the powers that be will grant you your desires.
Children are impressionable almost by definition. People like Tipper Gore would like to extend and expand that definition to dictate that things as simple as rock music lyrics are powerful enough psychological conditioning agents to transform middle-class urchins into shrieking serial killers. Let’s not go to that extent. Instead, we can confidently assert that in a cultural milieu wherein the influences of parents and the family unit as a whole are waning, other influences may assert themselves, particularly in the area of value formation. Cultural icons become more than just role models, but teachers. Advertising and commercial interests have had more than a little influence on the body image problems rampant today amongst young people and old, with thin waists and huge breasts for women and abdomen six-packs and rippling pectorals for men acting as motivation for an enormous sector of the population to emulate the feats of Sisyphos. As a society, we are being told whom we ought to be and what we ought to value in order to place some money in the hands of those who already have much, and whose only motivation is to accrue more.
In the vacuum used by the disintegration of the concept of the nuclear family, capital “M” media has become not just the message, to use Marshall McLuhan’s turn of phrase, but the instructor.
So there we go — divorces, single-parent households and generally poor family relations at a child’s formative state, coupled with the pervasive nature of multi-media culture has created an institutionalised incubator which produces blinkered cubicle monkeys. Children aren’t getting increasingly stupid, they’re responding adaptively to their environment. That environment indicates that not only is critical intelligence undesirable, but actually counterproductive to a safe and harmonious society.
A prime example is the film “Spider-Man 2.” Peter Parker throws away his moral obligation (“With great power comes great responsibility”) to society for the love of a woman after being told by a Grateful Dead T-shirt wearing hippie doctor that he always has a choice. He validates the “shut-up-and-do-your-duty” ethos by eventually realizing that in the situation of the bad guy grabbing the leading lady, his interests temporarily coincide. There are a number of speeches about giving up dreams in order to do what’s right. Looked at in this light, the film is virtually indoctrination in the form of entertainment. The individual is nothing. Conform. Obey. Listen to authority.
Is society going down the proverbial toilet? My first instinct would be to answer in the affirmative. The trend lines of any chart would seem to indicate a decline.
There is hope. As long as there are people who continue to examine their lives and to strive for authenticity, there is always hope. It’s just difficult to inspire young people when the real bodhisattvas have been replaced by vacuous spokesmodels and pseudo celebrities. Dharmas, enlightenment, and inner peace are wonderful things, but they’re not sexy, don’t earn much money, and won’t get you the adulation of the thronging crowd.
Willy Loman thought that being a personable and charming guy was the most important thing in life. Everything was about contacts and networking and building an impregnable fortress of friendships. He dies a miserable failure, having lost the respect of his son, the love of his wife, and with not a single footnote in the annals of history to commemorate his existence.
So question. Doubt. Verify. Consider the middle three letters of the word “Believe.” Read Kierkegaard’s “Fear and Trembling.” Existence is lived between states, not at static points of reference. Here endeth the lesson.
And with that, I bid you adieu. Footy news coming soon — watch this space.
Good night England and the colonies,

-mARKUS
¥Justice for the 96¥

Sony are a Shower of Bastards

Greetings, gentle readers.
I may not have a great deal of time here, so I'll be brief, and hope to provide a more extended monologue later. The news of the week involves Sony-BMG.
Here's the deal: their new "Copy-Protected" CDs are supposed to be a great move forward to restrict the free distribution of music and thus provide more revenues for corporations and greater royalties for artists. Huzzah.
The theory goes like this - if placed in a computer, the CD will autoload its own player, and then give the user an option of making 3 back-up CDs. Once those have been made, the CD content will be no longer burnable, and therefore, no mass black-market distribution can begin.
Here's what actually happens - the CD will load up a player program, and also install a "cloaked" program in your computer's system registry which does a number of potentially harmful things, and is exceedingly difficult to remove.

1. Sony didn't ask permission or tell anyone that these discs do these things. This is a bit of a sticky legal issue.


2. The "rootkit" which installs itself has no uninstall program.


3. The software causes some system instability and can affect performance as well as creating a number of opportunities for Blue-Screens of Death. See below.


4. The cloaking system that the rootkit uses to hide itself can be used by other malicious software to avoid detection by virus scanners. This is a big security issue.


5. The software in your computer “calls home”, which is to say that when you play a CD, it reads your computer hardware configuration, and the information about the CD and transmits that data to Sony. This is somewhat of a privacy issue.

This sinister tale of corporate insanity was discovered by Mark Russinovich just a couple of weeks ago on Halloween. The offending MalWare was written by a UK company which has been operating at a loss for the past little while, and has a CEO who was formerly an executive at Sony.
I’m not going to tell anyone to avoid buying Sony-BMG compact discs, but if you’ve already accidentally infected your computer, see the below link for instructions on uninstallation/disinfection.
People who doubt my veracity or who want to see the full information on the specifications and technical analysis of the software should also visit the aforementioned below link.
Mark Russinovich’s blog is located at http://www.sysinternals.com/Blog/ and the whole sordid affair is detailed there. Those of my treasured readers who are also fans of ancient Scandinavian literature might find much there to astound and amaze. Or at least pleasantly divert.
Until then, good night England and the colonies.
Cheers and take care everyone.

-mARKUS
¥Justice for the 96¥

Casting Call

Casting Call
Greetings, gentle readers.
So it’s mid-October again.  Another summer breathes its last, and what do we find?  We find my 32nd birthday fast approaching, and the spectre of mortality flickering about me like the ethereal shadow cast by a guttering candle.  That being said, I now find myself in new office space at work – a delightful corner office with tremendous views of the east and north sides of the city.  Since I’m now 31 stories above the ground, this means that I can peer over the Toronto Dominion Tower like a titan sneering at a leprechaun, and beyond it see the turf on Commonwealth Stadium and the Rexall sign on what used to be the Northlands Coliseum.  My rarified and lofty position in the business community was summed up nicely by my colleague Jackie, who glanced down at Churchill Square, almost 400 ft below us, and commented, “It’s raining down there.”
In other parts of the news, I’ve decided to stop hopping, and start walking.  Or, as would be more appropriate, hobbling about like a vagrant with one dead butt-cheek.  Also decided to ditch the cast.  It was pinching and hurting too much anyway.  So after crow-barring my swollen and bloated tootsie into my new shoe (never used, compared to the two months of use the left shoe has gotten…), I stumped up the apparently treacherous hill and made my way the three blocks to work.  My new, improved, non-crutch speed meant that I got there in just under half an hour.  So despite the pain and the increased swelling, and despite defying all professional medical counsel, I’m convinced I’m doing the right thing.  Or at least avoiding being a slack layabout, which for someone of partially German descent is the real point.
Those of you with an aversion to reading sports in general or World Football specifically may want to wander off somewhere and do something else at this point, since that’s pretty much all that I’ll be rambling about for the next few paragraphs.  I’ll even recommend some other web-pages.  First of all, there are the lovely advertisements on the right hand side of the screen.  Aren’t they appealing?  Hmm. Well, if that doesn’t twirl your baton, here are some other links (some of which I mentioned before, but who wants to go combing through the archives for links?):
The Annotated Manic Street Preachers site — if you think that North Wales is a home for egg-chasing rugby players and families of coal-miners who have had black lung for so long, it’s become a genetic trait, you’d be wrong.  Of course, up until the rise of the Manics and the Stereophonics, no one could supply any hard evidence, but now you can gaze upon the astonishing acumen and depth of these leek-lovers and be astonished.
The Official Franz Ferdinand site – what the aforementioned Welsh bands do to dispel Welsh stereotypes, this gang of Scottish bohemians does to the perception of Scotsmen as being a bunch of angry, cheapskate, skirt-wearing sheep-worriers (“Sa bonny ‘un, eh?” — “Hoot, mon!”).  Nah, this lot went to school.  They have been known to wear trousers.  They even speak German.  Nothing bad ever came from Germany. And they agree with my (and AJP Taylor’s) assessment of the actual cause of the First World War.  Cherchez la femme, I always say, cherchez la femme.
The Battle of Hoth — the definitive documentary about what really happened in that famous battle of the rebellion at the secret rebel base.  If you work really hard, you’ll see one of my vaunted film reviews buried somewhere in the enormous pile of mung… erm… I mean, the multitudinous evaluations made by my esteemed cinematically critical colleagues
That Cool Honda Commercial — Honda spent an enormous amount of money and let a bunch of ad dudes and technicians grab two extremely rare handmade Honda models, and rip them up to create one long, fluid, non-digitally enhanced game of “mousetrap.”  Rumour has it that it required over 1600 takes to finally get the sequence right.  Of course, they’re still a pack of Nipponese Death Merchants, but they’ve got at least one cool advert that should make any engineer drool.
The “V for Vendetta” Forum —details almost all the minutiae from Alan Moore’s fantastic graphic novel and provides academic bases for criticism and analysis.  Terribly useful stuff, considering that the film is due for release on Guy Fawkes’ Day.  That’s the fifth of November for those of you who aren’t familiar with the traditions of the Mother Country.
And now, on to the footy.  Those who have bailed at this point most likely don’t deserve to receive the burbling intimations that issue forth from the font of my insight.
So following an international week which saw England achieve automatic qualification for World Cup 2006, one might expect celebrations of the fact that, unlike USA ’94, England are part of The Big Show.  Charges that England had paved the road to qualification with unconvincing cobblestones are still laid about with the acrid frequency of cat urine in a carpeted room.  Why?  This is the most talented England squad since the popular distribution of colour television.  The number of English first-teamers jockeying for international and European player-of-the-year honours is beginning to approach the ridiculous.  Some would argue that not even the World Cup-winning team from 1966 would match them in terms of relative dominance.
Bobby Moore was a class act, Charlton, Hurst and Peters are legends.  Alan Ball and Nobby Stiles were tireless performers.  Gordon Banks’ heroics are still fondly remembered, particularly by the greatest player ever to grace the turf.  Playing a 4-3-3 “wingless” formation at Wembley against a formidable West German side was considered a risky ploy by Sir Alf Ramsay, but in the end, thanks to a Russian linesman, Britannia ruled for the one and only time in the history of the World Cup, ever since it was a gleam in Jules Rimet’s eye.  But consider a number of things.  Jimmy Greaves – goal-poacher supreme at the time and still legend at White Hart Lane, didn’t play in the final.  Neither did Sir Roger Hunt.
Was that the finest team England could field?  The debate rages.  Is it, to date, the greatest English team ever?  Personally, I would say that if one cast the clock back 16 years before that final and looked at the quality of Sir Stanley Matthews, Nat Lofthouse, Tommy Lawton, Billy Wright, Tom Finney and Stan Mortenson, you would find the most talented cast of Englishmen prior to the current squad.  Here’s the point. England didn’t win the World Cup in 1950 because they had no direction and no tactical acuity.  Given the criticisms of Sven-Goran Eriksson’s reign as England manager, this may sound like a familiar scenario.  As long ago as 2002, luminaries such as Brian Clough blasted the Swede for being too conservative and timid to impose a pace on games, and lacking the confidence or initiative to effectively chase games if a goal is conceded.
The problems with Eriksson’s governance of the England team can all be generally grouped around one word: discipline.  There are three types of discipline which the current England line-up have been guilty of ignoring or outright defying.
Professional Discipline
When David James put in yet another of his shambolic performances in net for his country against Denmark, his excuse was that he hadn’t prepared.  He hadn’t prepared for an international match in which he was to represent his country in front of home supporters.  Rio Ferdinand’s shaky displays in central defence have been justified by saying that the fans have been very negative towards him in the wake of his contract dispute with Manchester United.  After being suspended for failing to submit to a drugs test, the club stood by him and defended him in the press while paying his wages.  In return for this loyalty, he promptly demanded more money once he returned to the pitch.  I see the fans’ complaints as being justified, just as his selection for the England squad is not.  These are paid professionals, and they should be able to rise above these sorts of things.  Let’s just hope that if David James ever needs the services of another profession, like a doctor or a surgeon, that they will show more professional discipline and prepare to save him.
Tactical Discipline
David Beckham does a great job for Réal Madrid. He plays out wide right, in the space left vacant by the Italy-bound Luis Figo, and fires some telling crosses into the centre for Raúl and Ronaldo, et al. to convert. He also spikes a pretty good dead-ball.  But when he pulls the three lions over his head and puts the captain’s armband on his upper arm, he transforms into a different player.  Although he is supposed to play wide right, Becks has an annoying tendency to cut into the middle to try and win games all by himself.  That doesn’t work.  Joe Cole does the same thing on the left wing.  If England can’t hold their shape, they stand at a tactical disadvantage when playing organised opposition.  There is not enough authority being given to the assignments each player receives.   Stevie Gerrard had to track back and play a holding midfield role against Austria because no one was there, and Frank Lampard didn’t feel like doing it.  One gets the feeling that Sven’s tactics are just suggestions and the players are left to ad-lib as they see fit.
Emotional Discipline
Wayne Rooney is a very talented kid.  A bit of an idiot for dealing with a newspaper that no self-respecting Liverpudlian would use to line their bird-cages, but he does have some considerable skills on the pitch.  But what manager could stand idly by while one of his key strikers gets sent off and suspended for taunting and insulting a ref?  Rooney’s language has already proven a problem on numerous occasions for club and country, and Sven has done nothing to rein in the raging torrents of passion and aggression in the lad.  As a result, England have had to play games short of what would be their XI first picks.  Beckham has been sent off twice with Eriksson in charge – the only England player in history to do so.  If Becks is going to be the captain – and this is another topic for discussion – then he’s got to stay on the pitch for the whole game, and not pick up suspensions.  He has been a disappointment on both fronts.  Stuart Pearce had a reputation as a fearsome tackler and he sent waves of chill terror into the hearts of opposing right-wingers, but he was never sent off for England once.  Rooney and Beckham have consistently shown that they cannot maintain their composure or accept the responsibility of playing football for England.
Brazilians can’t just put in a good performance for their country.  They’re expected to play high-paced samba football with tons of trickery and offensive swashbuckling.  The Dutch national team would be pilloried if they tried playing a long-ball game. They are expected by the Orange Legion to play sexy total football, along the carpet in the tradition of Cruyff, Neeskens and Rep.
By the same token, English national teams are supposed to play with dignity, hard work, and sportsmanship.  Sir Stanley Matthews, Bobby Moore, Gary Lineker and Alan Shearer all maintained their decorum and professionalism both on and off the pitch.  Neutrals worldwide were left aghast at Maradona’s “Hand of God” cheat because it was universally assumed that no Englishman would accept credit for that goal.  England held the moral high ground.  But with red and yellow cards being flashed ever more frequently at English players, Sven’s lack of control over his team’s behaviour has caused a slide in perception.
England’s fantastic Ashes win over Australia earlier this year was incredibly gripping viewing even for people who don’t fancy cricket because the sportsmanship on display was astonishing.  It was a game of honour played by gentlemen.  England national football games are increasingly appearing to be a rapidly cobbled-together group of petulant millionaires arsing about as though it were a Sunday pub-league game.  England expects much more, though Sven may not.
And Liverpool finally notched their second Premiership victory of the season with a rather dire performance against Blackburn Rovers, who were down to 10 men midway through the first half.  Against the depleted team from the North-East, Liverpool were guilty of spurning chance after chance in a scintillating display of profligacy, Fernando Morientes and Luis Garcia in particular coming in for criticism with some truly mediocre attempts on goal from excellent positions.  They weren’t lucky to win, but they should have used the opportunity of a sent-off Khizinashvili to run up a cricket score against the swine who broke Cissé’s leg last year.  One-nil was a frustrating scoreline for a team with Liverpool’s strength (on paper).
With Chelski racing away and slaughtering opponents wholesale, the Premiership looks to be a done deal only 9 game days in.  The “Royal Blues” have run roughshod over all comers, winning every one of their games, and only conceding a goal in two matches.  Barring something extraordinary like injury or some sort of egregious disciplinary infraction, Chelski look set for at least one trophy this year, with the possibility of nabbing all four majors.  Liverpool’s five-trophy season of 2001 included the European Super Cup and the Charity Shield – both one-off matches, and the UEFA Cup, not the European Champions’ Cup.  Chelski could conceivably get:
1.  The Premiership Champions’ Trophy.
2.  The FA Cup
3.  The League Cup
4.  The European Champions’ Cup
5.  The European Super Cup
6.  The Charity Shield
7.  The World Club Cup
And in a final spurt of contempt for all opposition, they might have a go at winning the Fair Play trophy as well.  Of course, I don’t think they can win it all.  Even a squad as deep and well-stocked as Chelski’s has to have an odd hiccup or lapse in concentration.  The only question is: in which cup competition will they stumble?  My money would be on the Champions’ League.  They are vulnerable away from home in games called by continental referees, and they’ll slip up in the knockout rounds.  As for the FA Cup, I reckon they’ll require some highly favourable draws to grab that trophy.  I’d bet if they ran smack into Arsenal or Liverpool in the Quarter-Finals, they could go out quite comprehensively.  It’s easier to get favourable draws in the League Cup, so look for them to defend that trophy capably.  My prediction: two trophies.
So that’s my rambling over and done with for the next little while.  Will try to get another article out soon, but no guarantees as I’m knee-deep in deadlines.  Cheers to everyone, and here’s looking forward to Fulham on Saturday 22nd October, and to Crystal Palace on my birthday, Tuesday 25th October.
For now, good night England and the colonies.
-mARKUS
±Justice for the 96±

Chelski and Capitalism

Greetings, gentle readers.
The Rafatollah of Anfield has a little daughter named Claudia, and in her own little-girl way, she politely asked her father why his team was always playing "that team in blue." The learned and sagely Señor Benitez smiled and embraced his daughter, but didn't really offer an answer. Liverpool's manager from the Iberian Peninsula couldn't explain that despite the claims from the Fleet Street hacks, regardless of whatever "big" number they design – "the Big Three", "the Big Four","the Big Π", "the Big √2" or any other mathematic absurdity posed – only two teams in England stand a chance in European competition. Truth be told, since José Mourinho took control of Chelsea a season ago, he has played 67 games in all competitions and only lost 6 of them. Not surprising, considering the enormous outlay of cash on the squad, but previous manager of Chelsea Claudio Ranieri won NOTHING with almost the same core squad of players. In the same period of time, he has played Liverpool six times, and we have grown stronger with every battle. True, they defeated us in the League Cup Final last year, but we trumped that by drawing them at Stamford Bridge in the first leg of the Champions' League Semi-Finals last year, before beating them and knocking them out of the competition when we played in front of the Kop.
Who else beat them? Barçalona did. And in all honesty, they have been demonstrating how ridiculously strong they are of late. Write off a team that can field Ronaldinho, Deco, and Eto'o as well as a manager like Frank Rijkaard at your peril.
Moral of the story: you don't beat Chelsea unless you do something magic to counteract the force of Mourinho's charisma off the field and the likes of Makelele, Terry, Lampard, Robben, Duff, et aliter on it. Or unless the referee is inexplicably myopic. Cut to today's match.
Liverpool are destined to play at least four matches against Chelsea in this coming season. Home and away in the Premiership, home and away in the group stages of the Champions' League. Theoretically, we could also play in the FA Cup, the League Cup, and in the knockout stages of the Champions' League. It's an awful lot of times to keep running into the same team.
The Champions of Europe are almost inexplicable underdogs when facing a Chelsea team that has not only remained unbeaten since Liverpool beat them on 3rd May, but then has also won every single game. Many neutral observers speak about Roman Abramovich's seemingly interminable billions and how that kind of economic inequality must have a corresponding effect on the competitive nature of the Premiership and on the Champions' League. Charlton Athletic, perhaps the best team to try and do a bargain-bin imitation of Chelsea has done remarkably well, losing only one game - erm... to Chelsea. The play of Jerome Thomas and Dennis Rommedahl down the wide flanks have opened up and exposed every other Premiership opponent that they have faced.
Are Charlton that good? Are the tactics that incisive?
The answer lies in the debate between innovation and refinement. Surely it's not that revolutionary to play with wingers. Sir Stanley Matthews would certainly tell someone so. It's not the system, nor even the players employed within that system whiach determines the success, but rather the ability of the opposing team to recognise exactly what it's facing.
For the second time, we try to fast-forward to the Liverpool v. Chelsea match...
Tactically, Liverpool play the game cagey. Didi Hamann, the stalwart Horatio on the bridge that thwarted the Tuscan assaults of AC Milan but a few scant months ago­, returns to his role of spoiling opposition attacks. His performance can leave none with anything to question. Much as the heroic soldier that defended Rome in archaic history... he can hold bridges until those behind him can burn them. And in so doing, he has time and again proved himself one of the most valiant warriors to wear the Red Shirt. Or should I say... tunic? I'm sure that Livy would have much to say about that.
Meanwhile, Djimi Traoré was restored to left-back ahead of Steve Warnock, Steve Finnan was preferred to Josemi on the right, and the familiar pair of Sami Hÿypia and Jamie Carragher started directly in front of 'keeper Pepe Reina. Xabi Alonso and skipper Stevie G provided the forward drive through central midfield, while Luis Garcia, Djibril Cissé, and Peter Crouch played in a very fluid attacking line, with Crouch in the centre as a fulcrum. Describe the tactical style any way you like, but in the old "Wibble/Wobble" lingo (With Ball / With-Out Ball), it's essentially a 4-3-3/4-5-1. As the game wore on, Traoré began to venture forward as a left-sided midfielder, turning a back 4 into a back 3, but... no disrespect to Djimi... he does that sort of thing unbidden anyway. He's like a human tactical anomaly. Sometimes welcome, sometimes not.
The game was tense and taut as a badminton net at first dawn. Both teams man-marked so tightly that no player could have more than a momentary flash of possession before being tackled. Movements and passing plays were fragmentary at best, and scoring chances were scarce and fleeting.
As the game wore on, Liverpool, edged onward by the screaming, cheering and singing of the Kop end, began to make the best of the difference between the two sides. In the first half, Sami Hÿypia found himself bursting down the middle of the 18-yard box, ball at his feet, with Petr Cech looking decidedly beaten. Ricardo Carvalho was flat-footed and out of the picture, and John Terry was a mysterious absentee from the scene. As the huge, tow-headed Finn lunged toward goal, and with Cech rooted to his line, who else but Chelsea striker Didier Drogba should appear? The Côte d'Ivoire striker has practically burst his lungs running back from his striker's position at the far end of the field to defend his own goal area, and by the time he got near the towering Scandanavian poised to strike a lethal first goal, he only had time and energy for one action.
As Sami passed the penalty spot, moving diagonally from his right to his left, and started to cue up his left foot for a shot, he suddenly felt a thumping great contact on his inner left thigh, and found himself on the turf. Drogba had decided to ignore the ball altogether, and fire a stinging roundhouse kick into the immediate vicinity of Sami's junk cellar from behind, clipping him fiercely between the legs, but thankfully, below the level of the reproductive organs.
The referee inexplicably waved for a goal kick as the ball... the FOOTball... rolled into touch. Luis Garcia was aghast at the decision, but shook his head and started running back to his own end.
Liverpool seemed to grow in confidence as the match continued, and by the beginning of the second half, had begun to dominate play.
The problem was Djimi. I suspect that an alien spacecraft hovered nearby and sent a beam into his brain, giving him delusions of being Roberto Carlos because at the slightest provocation, he would hare forward into central midfield (of all places) leaving his designated defensive area completely vulnerable. It was on one of these walkabouts that Drogba received the ball on the Liverpool left. Charging back from being completely out of position, Traore panicks and chops Drogba's legs out from under him inside the 18-yard box. Penalty. No argument. A stupid penalty - given - but a penalty nonetheless.
Lampard whacks the ball from the spot, and Reina jumps the right way only for the ball to wriggle between his elbow and ribcage as he descends. Considering the vast number of Chelski infringements against Liverpool for which they were not penalised, it seems grossly unfair that they should capitalise on the solitary opportunity they are given.
That being said, the powers of goodness and justice and virtue are not asleep. Badly bruised and beaten, surely, but not asleep. A moment's inspiration from one of Liverpool's innumerable crosses as they press provides the equaliser. The ball sails across the box from the left, and none other than the man himself meets it with a vicious right-footed strike that the huge and mighty Petr Cech can touch, but not stop. The ball stings the fingers of the mighty Czechbefore bending them out of the way and flying across the face of goal into the opposite corner. Anfield explodes. Another goal from the top drawer of Steven Gerrard, future Kop legend and leader of the most stupendously successful and simultaneously frustratingly inconsistent sides in Liverpool history.
That frustration manifests itself as Cheski help themselves to three more goals in the second half. Sami Hÿypia is lurching around like a listing Spanish galleon. Traore is never anywhere to be found. Liverpool is still winning the midfield battles, but Cheksea's counterattacks open up holes in the defence again and again. It is later revealed that Sami was puking his guts up from the flu, but wouldn't take himself off. No excuses. Generally good performance for a poor result.
Despite overwhelming possession and pressure on the Chelski net, the counter attacks of the "Royal" Blues made the scoreline, and the consequent storylines and headlines.
So another three points dropped, and once again, it looks like a scrap for Champions' League berths rather than a shot at the title of the Premiership Champions.
So on to a couple weeks of internationals, and in the meantime, I bid you all adieu.
Cheers,

-mARKUS
^+Justice for the 96+^

Number Fifteen

Greetings, gentle readers.
Many apologies are due at this point. First and foremost amongst these should be my apology for delay and procrastination. An article of this fiddling magnitude should be dashed off at a moment's notice, not a subject of meditation and consternation.
That should segué nicely into my next apology: this article will not contain any enormous world-truths. As much as I enjoy deconstructing zeitgeists and cultural themes, today I am neither Jacques Derrida nor Hamlet. In the future perhaps. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.
Apology the third: I need to ramble on a bit about football. Sure, everyone wants to see the pretty pictures of lovely women, but I have to preclude that by opening my big yap about Liverpool. Liverpool have not lost yet in the Premiership this season, but finally conceded the first goals. To Birmingham City of all teams. After ninety minutes of domination, the most we could drag from a powerful and forceful display of energy and verve was a draw. Disappointment would ordinarily be the main item on offer at the cafeteria of emotions, but there are a number of reasons for optimism. In the first four Premiership matches, Liverpool managed one goal. We scored double that entire amount in one game on Saturday. The result of the game should be disbelief that we conceded two goals on two freak mis-hit balls, and burgeoning confidence that we can smash sack-loads of balls past opposing keepers, evern away from home.
Meanwhile, injury-riddled Manchester United lost to Blackburn. A ridiculously easy result to predict, but after the horrid run of injuries Liverpool had last season, it's very difficult to crow in triumph after pointing out another's shortcomings in personnel. So I won't even try.
And Arséne Wenger has responded to the swelling throng of media-folk who have clamoured for the Premiership to become more entertaining. The Arsenal manager mentioned that perhaps teams could get an extra point if they thrash their opponents by three goals or more. I don't disagree. If my team are playing Hungover XI or whatever, I want to see a cricket score, not some safe 1-0 scoreline. What's the fun in that? Can Liverpool get a goal past a dippy team desperately fighting promotion? Probably. Can they get three or four? It's worth watching to find out... Meanwhile, idiot teams like Everton could try and stop folding altogether when talented teams start kicking them all over the park. If anyone wants to do the research, have a look at what Everton did when they travelled to Highbury to play Arsenal last season. On the one hand, I'm ashamed to say that the team comes from Merseyside, but on the other, I'm ecstatic that no team in red would grab their ankles and say "AHHH" quite as enthusiastically. Then again, at least Toffees love their team, which is more than can be said for the fickle and glory-hounding bandwagon-jumpers of other teams which shall for the moment remain unnamed. If people are concerned about attendances and stadium-capacity crowds, they ought first to look at their fan base. If there's an empty seat in Anfield, I would gladly trade one of my senses to fill it : curiosity, balance, outrage - you name it.
Next, I feel an obligation to apologise to Janeane Garofalo . Some person pasted one of my articles onto a mondo Janeane Garofalo site, and of course, it had to be the article which detailed the slipping of the comedienne from 9th spot to 20th. Those who have read the posting about twentieth place will no doubt have realised that I dashed off a fairly flippant cursory analysis in which I off-handedly dismissed some of Janeane's political activism as some sort of flaky, trendy, west-coast, left-wing, tree-hugging hippie-weirdo excrement. I realise now, considering the "Impeach Bush" campaign and other indicators of awareness, that my dismissive attitude was disrespectful and the product of a profound lack of knowledge. So in addition to having the lovely Ms. Garofalo plummet eleven places in the table, I managed to add insult to that injury. My apologies are freely proffered. My mortification knows no bounds. If it did, it would certainly invite them round for crisps and tea.
And now, I move on to my final apology. Fifteenth spot on my Pulchritudinous Premiership has not changed. Last season to this one, considering the upheaval and turmoil, one would assume there would be a shuffling of things, and well there has been. Three people relegated, three promoted - the odds of someone retaining a position are pretty remote. That being said, four women have kept their exact same numerical position whilst all about them have been shuffling theirs. Jennifer Love Hewitt has already been demonstrated to have been one at number 19. Those of you able to research through the archives will by now already know the occupant of this spot on the table, but without any further ado - 15th place continues to be held by...
Anna Faris
This lass has never received the recognition that she deserves. Of course, she's been struggling mightily to divest her thespian portfolio from the "Scary Movie" franchise, so her endeavours are entirely understandable.
She's funny, she's versatile, she has this strange sense of humour that makes me quirk my mouth in a smile whenever she hitches her eyebrows, and she doesn't take herself too seriously. This may be fast becoming a theme on this page, but anyone who rather staidly decides that they are a responsible cultural icon and needs to behave accordingly is a prat. Anna is amazing because she can retain a very solid sense of perspective, and apply it to her every action. Symptomatic of an existential thinker, and a brilliant actress.
Of course, the picture to the left doesn't really do her justice. She's trying to be too serious, and it looks as though someone has just hosed her down with an industrial-sized can of non-stick baking pan fluid. That's almost as bad as a serial-hyphenation spree. Gah!
In any event, the same comments I made in praise of Miss Faris during last season are still applicable. I'm a sucker for deadpan comedic delivery, and Anna is phenomenal at taking the mickey out of the stereotypical shrieking hysterical female victim/heroine. In an era of political correctness wherein women have to simultaneously portray towers of emotional strength in order to satisfy feminist interest groups and panicked, screaming, horrified pawns in order to satisfy whatever bizarre demographic enjoys that sort of things in horror films, it's tough to find a balance. Anna manages to pull it off, however, and my respect is virtually boundless. Her career is destined to burgeon further, and I look forward to seeing more evidence of her diverse talents as she moves forward. Watch this space. This is a woman with an ascendant star. Incidentally, the picture on the right makes Anna look remarkably like Tina Fey, who is jockeying for promotion in the coming season, so that should create at least a tiny modicum of drama and tension for the 2006-2007 season. Or maybe not. I might be the only heterosexual who finds Tina Fey enormously attractive. Who knows?
In the meanwhile, Liverpool are now facing off against Chelski in a two-match double-header (there are the hyphens again...) and there is a wonderful article on my hero Jamie Carragher at http://www.liverpoolfc.tv/mediawatch/drilldown/MW8994050925-1119.htm. I was hoping to delve into a deep analysis on footie tactics, but I can see that I don't have enough time or energy for such things. I've been babbling about holding midfielders and wide, five-man midfields for far too long without committing myself down in text. What I want to do is be ahead of the next revolution. When people begin to understand that you need a holding midfielder to balance a man in the hole or a supporting striker, the game will change again. Chelski are ravaging everyone because their opponents are either so busy trembling with fear to bother with tactics, or they are unable to deal with Chelsea's wide men and Makelele.
As soon as I reckon out the next wave of tactical innovation, I'll let you know.
Cheers,

-mARKUS

^+Justice for the 96+^

Number Sixteen.

Greetings, gentle readers.
Although I'm sure that very few people in existence are waiting in breathless anticipation of my personal estimation of publicly recognisable female figures, I thought that I should try and keep a schedule that would allow me to finish this season's tables before the next one begins. So without too much ado, here is what has happened in sixteenth spot in the pulchritudinous premiership...
Last season, this spot was held jointly by
Jennifer and Cynthia Dale.
These two Canadian sisters, originally of the family name Ciurluini, are inspiring and talented actresses and performers. Last season, I copped out in judgement by including both of them, since choosing once sister over another is generally a poor decision in general. Parents out there know that to which I refer. Jennifer, pictured to the right, is probably best known cinematically for such critically acclaimed films as "Whale Music", and "The Adjuster", though admittedly neither of them is renowned for spectacular box office success. She has done a metaphorical ton of television work, however, most notably in terms of popular culture in "John Woo's Once A Thief." American readers might recognise her from her performance as Jacqueline Bouvier-Kennedy-Onassis-Etc. in the TV special "Hoover vs. The Kennedys : The Second Civil War."
Cynthia, Jennifer's younger sister, may be slightly more recognisable to those of us not intimately acquainted with the Canadian film industry. She appeared in such films as "My Bloody Valentine" and "Moonstruck" in the 1980's before landing a role on the television series "Street Legal."
Both sisters are immensely talented, possessed of a startling degree of altruism and integrity, and display equally impressive intelligence, composure and eloquence.
That being said, they are no longer sixteenth in the tables. I'm probably just demonstrating my not inconsiderable predilections towards cowardice and sloth.
In other words, it doesn't seem fair to the other nineteen spots on the list, doesn't seem æsthetically consistent, plus I loathe any kind of confrontation, even within my own mind that this might cause, and finally - it's more work for me if they're both on the list. More writing, more visuals... Easier for all concerned if the reform of the table tended toward a more uniform structure. Another cop-out answer, to be sure. Be that as it may, you may recognise the lass who now occupies this spot. It's...
Ali Landry
The brave lady from Breaux Bridge, Louisiana who recently made some headlines in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. She was previously seventeenth in the table and has managed to climb one place because of her giving, outgoing and open personality as well as the astonishing alacrity with which she threw herself into efforts to seek relief for those in the Gulf of Mexico affected by the recent meteorological unhappiness.
Plus of course, all of the earlier characteristics which I earlier described, and which got her into the tables in the first place last season, as being desirable and attractive still hold true. She's funny, doesn't take herself too seriously, has a very understanding and communicative nature, and enjoys professional sports.
Plus, she was also born during the same year that I was, so that removes any sort of stigma of age-discrimination. This Premiership table doesn't exclusively desire to cradle-rob or to hang about leering into zimmer-frame shops. It's about quality and merit, not the number of 25th of Decembers a woman has seen. So her inclusion allows me the opportunity to make that distinction clear and remove it from the forum of debate.
Well, that exhausts me capacity to remain upright. Back soon with more football commentary and poetic analysis or whatever dubious authenticity either one might have. Cheerio, and spare a thought for Sir Spike Milligan, Sir Harry Secombe, Peter Sellers and Michael Bentine. All sorely missed. Good night, England and the colonies...

-mARKUS
^+Justice for the 96+^

The Nature of Things

Greetings, gentle readers.
No disrespect to Dr. David Suzuki (with whom I've spoken and respect deeply) but it seems apropos to mention at this point how intensely depressing this entire blogpage is. Does the fact that life is fleeting and essentially unfulfilling colour the way I express things?
Am I alone in feeling that the world is a bleaker place for lack of Sir Harry Secombe, Douglas Adams, John Lennon, and Bill Shankly? Every time I mention "England and the colonies", I think of Sir Harry and the goons. Every vaguely self-derisory comment echoes Douglas Adams. Every expression of inauthentic bombast sounds like John. And from whence would my love of football come, if not from the Messiah of Glenbuck?
Everyone's life ends the same way, although I always thought it amusing to consider that I could go out the same way I came into this world - naked, screaming, and in a pool of blood.
Happy thoughts aside, I considered that before I post my next entry of my pulchritudinous premiership that I should inject a sense of gravitas into the proceedings. At least I haven't spouted off some weary chestnuts like "everyone dies, but not everyone truly lives." Oh. Damn, I just did.
Right-o. Looking forward to the Liverpool v. Manchester United match tomorrow morning, although that will mean being horizontal a long time before and after.
"How are the Reds doing?" I hear you ask. Well, we're not quite as spectacularly well off as teams like Chelski who thus far have won every single league match without conceding a single goal. We're apparently not even as successful as Hearts of Midlothian, who have taken the Scottish Premier League by storm, winning all of their seven matches thus far with striker Rudi Skacel scoring in every match. That being said, we're not losing. And the defence of the European Champions' Cup has begun in earnest, with the Red Machine travelling to Seville to defeat Réal Betis 2-1. Things are proceeding apace, and the future somehow manages to look simultaneously bright and daunting. Bright, because the team is playing better with every match and soon the last batch of international qualifiers for the 2006 World Cup will be out of the way. Daunting because the fixture congestion of League, European Champions' League, FA Cup, League Cup and World Club Cup will mean that there will be more games than that at which one could comfortably shake a stick.
So, as always, I advise courage and fortitude while falling far short of displaying either attribute in my personal life. I knew a huge, burly Afrikaaner while I was living in Malawi, and whenever we played Blackjack together, he had this habit of bellowing "COURAGE!" before pounding the table and hitting a 12 or a 13. So unless you want to upset 250 lbs. of gruff Boer, I suggest that we all listen to what he had to say. Or he'll probably rip off some of our limbs and beat us with the bloody stumps.
I'm off to lie down again. Until next time, cheerio.

-mARKUS
^+Justice for the 96+^

What is poetry?

Greetings, gentle readers.
Sure, I've got some not inconsiderable editing abilty. That being said, I'm no poet laureate, and would like to think that I haven't pretended to be. Thus, when asked to make critical comments about poems, I chose the coward's way out, and wrote my own, in the hopes that people could draw their own conclusions, and I wouldn't be forced to explain things directly. So here we go.

indian summer

do you remember

warmth

in heavy smothered

breath

perfumed and soft

as a whispered farewell

the pipes that sang in your dreams

left only echoes

hollow and brittle

the river carries the leaves of autumn away

never to return

the north wind sighs

with thoughts of sorrow

and i

breathe your name

in misty opposition

but the frost

does not care

- mARKUS

What's the point? Summer turns to autumn and it makes us all sad, I suppose. The point I wanted to illustrate is that I don't editorialise. I try not to tell my readers to feel lonely or isolated or discriminated against. To be perfectly honest, I think this poem is rather rubbish, since it still wanders away from pure imagery, and uses very nebulous terms like dreams and thoughts. The work - the conjecturing and creation - should be done in the reader's head, not on the page. As Norman Mailer wrote, poems should be like pins stuck by sadists. They should prompt and provoke, but not explain or illustrate. Prose is for delineation and diversification. Poetry is supposed to be a distillation. It should be quick. Almost silent. It should be the least amount of words needed to express a concept. Ezra Pound said that poets should remove any word from a poem which does not do work. I agree. I'll even volunteer to wield the blade when it comes time for the cull.
So there's my lecture on poetry. I would carry on further, but I don't have the energy. Someday, when I have a solid foundation of physical and mental health, I'll hold forth at greater length. Oh, and if someone could remind me to laugh sarcastically at people who specialise in archæology and try and use that knowledge to draw conclusions about the future of mankind, I would be immensely appreciative.
Good night England and the colonies.

-mARKUS
^+Justice for the 96+^

Number Seventeen

Greetings, gentle readers.
So Canada's ladies faced off against the World Champions in the only sport that matters - twice. And lost both times. But that's not surprising. The Germans are very, very good. And they've never dropped a game against the Canuck females. That being said, Kara Lang scored in both games, showing that there is some fiesty competitive spirit amongst the fairer sex in the True North Strong and Free. No disrespect to Charmaine Hooper, Canada's most capped athlete, but Kara is the future of Canadian Women's Footie. More about Ms. Lang later...
For now, let's look at who was in seventeenth place last season, and we'll see who currently holds that position. So for the season 2004-2005, 17th place was held by...
Ali Landry
The former Miss Louisiana has done admirably well for her state, following the distastrous visit of Hurricane Katrina.
In the aftermath of New Orleans nearly being wiped from the face of the globe, Ali heroically spearheaded a number of relief efforts and celebrity fund-raisers to help bring food, medical assistance, and shelter to thousands of damp Cajuns. Makes me want to settle down with some jambalaya and crawdad pie.
Rest assured that being no longer being ranked 17th has not diminished Ali's status in any way. She's dodged relegation. However, the place in the table that she held last season has now been taken by someone else. Last season, this lass held 11th place, but has dropped somewhat in the rankings. The holder of the last place safely above the relegation zone is...
Natalie Portman
Yes, Darth Vader's girlfriend is still kicking in the tables. We'll see how she fares as she has gone on to film "V for Vendetta" as Evey Hammond. Depending on the faithfulness of the depiction and the overall quality of the production, her status is still very volatile. Thus far, no Alan Moore graphic novel has survived a translation to the cinematic screen, and there are some very disturbing reports of the producers of this latest effort losing the plot somewhat. Oh well.
At the very least, Natalie has left behind some very positive performances in "The Professional", "Beautiful Girls" and... erm... "Mars Attacks!" She's also a dedicated student and a charming personality. So hats off to Miss Hershlag.
I've been trying to post this for over three days now, and I just don't have the stamina to crank out more lines of text. Hopefully, I can try and dedicate more time in the future to try and do more justice to the subjects I'm depicting in this little space. Incidentally, Rosamund Pike and Tina Fey were strong candidates for promotion, but hey - not everyone can be a winner. Back soon, and hopefully feeling a tad more hale and/or hearty.
Cheers,
-mARKUS
^+Justice for the 96+^

Number Eighteen

Greetings, gentle readers.
Those of you with delicate sensitivities are no doubt approaching this page with the same trepidation normally reserved for handling radioactive isotopes near one's reproductive organs or juggling eggshell-thin flasks of volatile chemicals. Have no fear. Failing that, have less fear than you would ordinarily express. Gone now are the gory photographs and the tales of shrieking unhappiness. Let us banish such thoughts to the æsthetic wilderness wherein they are incongruous. Instead, let us turn our thoughts to the fairer sex, and see what has happened to eighteenth place in the Premiership, shall we? Last season, that place was held by...
Kara Lang
She's a number of things, primarily amongst them — young. Youngest human being to score in a full international footie match, youngest player ever to get a full cap for Canada, and certainly the youngest female athlete to have earned the appellation "Clubber".
Born in Calgary, Alberta and raised in Oakville, Ontario, Kara has surpassed all expectations. A superb athlete, a phenomenal international competitor, and an exemplary role-model. I suppose that I've run out of comparative adjectives. She's Canadian, athletic, and doesn't just play football, but does so in the true spirit. The great Bill Shankly would be proud to have such a team-spirited player pass and move on the pitch in his colours. I know of few greater compliments. I've even got a photo of her wearing red. Rafa? First female in the English Premiership, perhaps? She's got to be comparable to Mark Gonzales, certainly, and her transfer fee would be a snip compared to any other right-sided midfielder.
So who currently occupies the position of 18th in my Premiership? Answer:
Claire Danes
Another promotion, and not an undeserved one.
Any hesitations about her unidimensional acting abilities are easily dismissed by pointing out the range of emotions she displayed during the run of "My So-Called Life". Sure, her performance in "Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines" was rubbish, but then, so was the whole film. She did a phenomenal job in Baz Luhrmann's "Romeo + Juliet", which couldn't have been easy, considering that she had to play opposite Leonardo DiCaprio, who is renowned for being more wooden than several major deciduous forests.
In short, she's expressive, hard-working, decisive, and professional. A couple of those adjectives work both for and against her in my mind, but if you look into her eyes, she has the ability to convince you that she is telling the absolute truth. In other words, you may love her or hate her, but she wields power. I'd much rather have her on my side than marshalling forces against me.
And now, if you'll forgive me, I need to collapse somewhere and faint. Too much æsthetics gives me a bit of a headache. Good night England and the colonies.
Cheers,
-mARKUS
^+Justice for the 96+^

Go Cyborg!

Greetings, gentle readers.
Having just emerged from surgery with a hefty whack of titanium surgical steel apparently now permanently nestled in my bones, I thought I would do my bit for Sartre-esque nausea and show people what my ankle looked like just a few hours ago. Brace yerselves...
This is what the leg looked like while still in the sock and semi-fibreglass cast, rather inextricably fused by cascades of seeping blood. Note how clean the back the ankle, near the Achilles tendon, seems in comparison to the remainder. More on that later.
Now that the cast has been removed, we can see the staples extending down the interior of the leg. This side now has two screws and a plate holding the bones together, and the x-ray shows that things are mending apace.
This is the exterior of the leg, which is now home to three screws. Note the back of the ankle, where the fibreglass cast pinched the flesh against the plastic and foam of the airboot and slowly snipped off small tracks of flesh, the blood of which soaked into the fibreglass but did not leak into the sock area. The swelling still looks a bit nasty, n'est-ce pas? The bruising higher up on the calf was caused by prolonged elevation and insufficient blood drainage out of the foot and ankle area. Of course, I didn't realise the length of this incision, which caused me no end of bewilderment why the muscle on that side of the leg was so pained and clenched. Heh. Silly me.
So in any event, the staples are now gone, the robo-piranhas have been banished, and although I still feel very funky, the piercing sharp lances of agony have abated. All that remains is vague bone-nausea and the throbbing and swelling.

"It's dark in this wood, soft mocker.
For whom have I swelled like a seed?
What a bone-ache I have.
Father of tensions, I'm down to my skin at last."

Ah, Theodore Roethke had it right all along.
But I shall return soon, and hopefully, shall do so with more inspiring and happy thoughts and images. Cheerio.

-mARKUS
^+Justice for the 96+^

To Repel Ghosts

Greetings, gentle readers.
At long last, I can give my impressions of the events as they transpired on 25th May, traditionally that merriest of months. Then perhaps, I can begin to focus on more temporally relevant issues and articles.
So to briefly recap, Liverpool had managed to force their way past Chelsea in the Semi-Finals, perpetuating the legacy that no team from London has ever reached the European Cup Final. Of course, it was a harrowing experience for Scouse fans, since the second leg of that SF match-up involved 6 minutes of time added-on. A single Chelsea goal at any point during the game would have ended Liverpool's season in Europe. So with a slight derisory and scornful half-reference to a website of ill-repute whose cretinous minions caused a delay in the game, I'll casually remark that there were some idiots who will not be welcome in the red half of Merseyside at any time in the near future, and I won't even give a hint as to which web-site it is, because I don't want them to get a single hit in future, unless it be in some terribly sensitive part of their collective anatomy.
Flash forward two weeks, and this is what we find.
Young Maxtin is recovering from his surgery, and fears about infections and immune responses are still causing some consternation. The brave little blighter is still in hospital, and I'm still dreadfully concerned for him. On the flip side, Liverpool have reached the pinnacle of glory for the first time in 20 years. I was 11 years old at the time. I was 10 when they last won the competition. I've been waiting for the entirety of my adult life for this - the culmination of my team's ambitions. Bill Shankly's famous quotation,
"Some people believe football is a matter of life and death. I'm very disappointed with that attitude. I can assure you it is much, much more important than that,"
seemed more than simply appropriate. This was an occasion to lay fears and doubts to rest, to exorcise demons from the past, to transform the piercing shrieks of trauma into the respectful enunciation of remembrance, and to allow muted analysis to hold forth with authoritative pride. It's not often in one's life where the opportunity to fuse the individual and the communal, the subjective with the objective, and expectation with fulfillment arises. This was just such a time.
And so that Wednesday, I accompanied my gang of usual suspects to the largest haven of footy to be found within a public house in Edmonton to watch the spectacle. The ever affable Eoin, the cynical Jeffy, the redoubtable James and his incisive father Fritz, and myself went to Whyte Avenue to meet the local footy pundit-cum-radio-celebrity Soccer-Steve and watch the match at the Elephant and Castle.
The crowd there was larger than usual. This was to be expected, since it was the big Final, but we were recognised by some of the die-hards. I have to confess that I'm the die-hard Liverpool fan of the group, but my incessant ravings and ramblings have, through some sort of acoustically osmotic process, infected the group with Red Fever. Clad in home kits and scarves, we were immediately recognised by fellow scouse fans and hailed. No johnny-come-latelies, us. The hearts had been on display on the sleeves within the establishment for months.
And so, with fresh chips on the table and hope in our hearts, we hunkered down in our usual spot - front and centre - before the large projection screen. There was already some pre-game singing and cheering filling the air, and throughout the opening ceremonies, we were able to see that the vast majority of the people packed into the capacity crowd at Kemal Ataturk Stadium outside of Istanbul were wearing Liverpool red. The cameras did a panoramic sweep of the stadium from end to end, and it was as though the Kop had opened a branch office on the Bosphorus. Whatever miniscule contingent of Milanese fans had bothered to tear themselves away from their bocce games or Pucchini recitals could barely have constituted one percent of the crowd. Once again, evidence of the hot Latin blood that burns for successful Italian clubs was absent, to be replaced by some sort of tepid disinterest that wouldn't know the difference between cacciatore and catenaccio. On any other occasion, I would derisively snort and laugh contemptuously at the "ultras" of a six-time European championship team who couldn't be arsed to go and check out a possible seventh. On that day, however, I was ecstatic that the Rossoneri faithful were true to form - limp and flaccid. Before the whistle, "You'll Never Walk Alone" boomed over the tannoy... and was promptly washed away in a red tide of tens of thousands of voices singing of unity, teamwork, togetherness, courage, and forgiveness. Red Scousers all over the world sang, and then held their breath as the match began...
And are gutted from the start. Almost before we are able to able to put our metaphorical fingers on the pulse of the game, Paolo Maldini pounces on a mis-cleared ball in the 18-yard box and although he mis-hits it, it bounces over a lunging Jerzy Dudek in the Liverpool goal to give the Milanese travelling contingent in Istanbul something to sing about. Both of them scratch their fezzes, clap their kebabs and sing the first four lines of "That's Amore" before realising they don't know the rest.
Both in the pub and in Kemal Ataturk Stadium, there is a moment of deathly silence. It would be as though Luciano Pavarotti suddenly broke wind in La Scala... oh, wait, no I'm sure the occasional Italian with some pride might make a noise in such an instance. The custodian, perhaps.
Despite the setback, we are able to settle back and take stock. In a hasty conference with the lads down the pub, I mention that history has already been made - Paolo has become the oldest scorer in a European Cup Final, and if the result stood, would be a four-time winner of Europe's most prestigious trophy. He's also the record holder for the quickest goal scored in a European Cup Final. His place in history is assured as one of, if not THE greatest amongst defenders in the history of the game. He's always been class, a phenomenal reader of the game, a captain of his national team who has only ever played for a single club side in his entire career. If Liverpool are going to miss grasping the final rung on the climb to the return to triumph, I reason, he would be the most dignified and respectful opponent possible. Not exactly a stirring battle paean on the order of Henry V's "once more unto the breach, dear friends" speech, but I'm concentrating, and I need level heads around me as I focus.
What I see is very, very discouraging from my point of view. The Rafatollah had the team run out in what might laughingly be called a 4-4-2 formation, but in reality was a left-side-heavy 4-5-1. Perpetual injury victim and cardiac-deficiency suspect Harry Kewell is presumably attacking down the left flank deep ahead of midfield, baffling medical technicians, surgical specialists, and Milan Baros alike.
I can see what Rafa Benitez is trying to do on the pitch, and I feel no small amount of consternation. He wants attacking width through the midfield in an effort to tire Milan's venerable and aging defenders. The plan fails spectacularly. Harry Kewell, to no-one's great surprise, goes off injured and has to be replaced.
Hernan Crespo, the Argentinian on a season-long loan to AC Milan from Chelsea, begins making some incisive runs diagonally between Jamie Carragher and Sami Hÿypia in the heart of the Liverpool defence. There are a number of reasons why this is dangerous. First of all, he has a great playmaker in the form of Kaká, who has the ability to slide pinpoint passes into that space. Second, Sami is having another of his off-days, where he looks a half-step slower than everyone else on the field. Third, Djimi Traore is sensing the hesitation and the confusion in front of Dudek's goal, and starts trying to help out by moving inside from his left-back position, leaving Liverpool's wing exposed.
The results are painful to experience. My cadre of Reds fans begin feeling that sinking sensation as Milan begin to slowly gain control of the game. The cheering from the remainder of the pub slowly becomes more subdued and tense as well. The captain on the pitch, Stevie G, begins running about like a madman, trying to stop the haemorrhaging, but Milan are confident in their stride, and play keepaway from the inspirational skipper.
Crespo scores a goal. 2-0 to the Italian team.
Andrei Shevchenko, the reigning European Player of the Year blasts a third goal, but he is called back for a very tight offside decision.
As the Liverpudlians are reeling in confusion and exhaustion, Milan closes in for the kill. The Reds only want to make it to half-time without the score being too lopsided.
No such luck. Another exquisite pass from Kaká sets Crespo free again, and he gleefully smashes another goal. 3-0.
The half-time whistle is greeted with sighs of relief all around the pub. I've been focusing so intently on the game that my brow is glistening with a thin sheen of perspiration. As I look around at my colleagues, there are very few signs of optimism or hope.
"Can we come back from this?" asks James bleakly.
"I'll tell you when we take the field again." I reply. My mind is racing with possibilities. This situation has arisen before. Liverpool needed three goals in 45 minutes to defeat Olympiakos back in December. That Greek team had an even more impenetrable defence at the time, and yet, Stevie and the lads were able to overcome that. This is a bit different, though.
No team has ever come back from a three-goal deficit to win the European Cup Final. And this is AC Milan, a team renowned for shutting down the defensive avenues, closing down the space, and watching the game tick down. When they defeated Juventus two years prior, they were able to play 120 minutes of scoreless football, and decide the title on penalty kicks. Now they're up by three goals, and only have to stultify the game for 45 minutes to be declared the champions again.
Tactically, I know what the gaffer needs to do. Before the break, Steve Finnan is limping about gamely at right-back. He can't go on. Rather than substituting another defender like Josemi in for the lad, Benitez needs to put another man in midfield. Luckily, there's a man on the bench who can stop the bleeding. Didi Hamann plays just in front of the defenders - exactly where Kaká has been lasering his passes to the strikers up front. If Hamann can plug that gap, the supply of dangerous balls into the Liverpool end will dry up. That will also give Stevie more room to go forward and roam into that same dangerous position, only attacking the Milan goal. What makes Stevie so dangerous is that he doesn't need to pass it, if he roams far enough forward, he can let the defenders man-mark the Liverpool strikers, which will give him enough space to fashion his own goal-scoring opportunities.
Meanwhile, something was happening behind the scenes at the Kemal Ataturk Stadium. As the lads sat in crumpled disarrary around their dressing room, they started hearing raucous noises from across the corridor. AC Milan, considering the match already sewn up in a foregone conclusion, had begun to celebrate. Bottles of sparkling wine were opened, and lusty songs were belted out.
The gaffer was telling the lads in the Liverpool dressing room that if they can just score the next goal, they had a chance. Wearily, stalwart warriors like Jamie Carragher roused themselves and began the march back to the pitch.
Once again, as has happened so many times, Stevie G heard the call. His teammates needed him. His gaffer needed him. And millions of Red supporters around the world whispered one humble prayer to all the deities of Anfield – "Give us a chance, Stevie."
The Reds inside the ground weren't shaken by the seemingly impassable scoreline — they sang their hearts out deliriously, letting the spirits of Shanks, Paisley and Fagan know that LFC were back at the top, playing one game for the most prestigious club trophy in the world.
When Stevie's face emerged from the tunnel, it was the face of a grimly determined skipper holding his team's morale by a very thin tether.
Miracles, as they are so often wont to do, begin with something small. A crowd of scousers started to sing the Anthem of Anfield in a corner of the vast new stadium. In a matter of moments, it has spread around the ground, gathering momentum and resonance until the song pulses out like the beating of a tribal war drum.
The gaffer made the change I had hoped for, Didi was coming on, the sneering arrogance of the Milanese rossoneri, and Stevie's leadership coalesced in that fiery crucible of singing, shouting scousers. Once more, Stevie surveryed the awesome spectacle around him, observed the tears and the cheers and got that cold look in his eye. Had he noticed that glare, Gennaro Gattuso in the Milanese midfield would have soiled himself. Noisily.
I noticed it, and a small smile crept across my face.
"Yeah," I remarked to James sitting next to me, "this can be done."
His response was a frank look of cynical disbelief.
Right from the kick-off, the game was different. AC Milan were trying to play their usual possession game, comfortably stroking the ball around and controlling the tempo of the game. But Liverpool were not the same team. Now with rock-solid stability in defence, the midfield of Gerrard, Smicer, Alonso and Riise pushed up and were able to challenge for possession without over-committing themselves out of position. And with Stevie in possession, things began to take shape.
Liverpool earn a free-kick in a dangerous position, and the skipper confidently strides forward to take it. Stevie makes no mistake with a dead-eye missile. Dida in the Milan net can only stare flabbergasted at the vapour trail and shake his head in astonishment. The Brazilian keeper has barely enough time to inspect his trousers to ensure that they are still on his legs before Vladi Smicer cuts inward at the top of the 18-yard box and unleashes a stinging drive that nestles in the bottom-left corner of the net. Pace, power, and precision. Dida has no chance. Suddenly, the score is 3-2 for Milan, and the northern Italian team is visibly shaken.
The predator has become the prey. Where Milan were the controllers and the orchestrators of a symphonic victory, suddenly an improvised jazz beat has sent all of their instruments awry. Suddenly, they are the victims of their own tactical system. They have two strikers and a midfielder behind them designed to slice passes through the Liverpool defensive line. Suddenly, their plan is moot, since Didi has stifled that entire route. By the same token, Stevie has stepped into the same role that Milan designed for Kaká, and is performing it beautifully. Milan can't afford to man-mark Gerrard, since as soon as someone tries to fulfill that responsibility, it will open up another Liverpool forward, and Gerrard will unerringly hit that man with an inch-perfect pass. On the other hand, if one were to back off Stevie a little bit, and try and cut off his runs AFTER he has started dribbling the ball, one gets a...
Penalty. Gattuso hacks down Stevie in the box, and the skipper pops to his feet to nominate his good pal Xabi Alonso to take the penalty. Xabi is a solid dead-ball master but...
The heartbeats of everyone in the pub stop and the air is suddenly warmer and heavier than before. Breaths are held. Bathroom breaks are delayed. Pints are held in quivering grasps.
Dida is renowned for cheating on penalty kicks. His escapades are well renowned from the 2003 Champions' Cup Final. James' father leans over the table and mouths that the next goal will decide the game. I'm not sure about cutting the tension with a knife. An industrial-strength bandsaw, perhaps. However, I've already vaulted to my feet twice in the previous six minutes and screamed to Jupiter, Jehovah, and any other visiting religious figures that whatever favours they've bestowed, they were the right ones. I've had tears of exhaustion, passion and joy run into my scarf to mingle with my copious perspiration. I know how Didi Hamann would take a penalty, but any predictions on my part as to Xabi's decision would be virtually pure specualtion.
The young Basque lines up to take the shot, and the world holds its proverbial breath.
.
.
.
A right-footed shot, smashed with a tremendous amount of power, which curves to the left and looks to bend inside the left-sided post until the intervening limbs of a valiantly flailing Dida knock the ball away from the goal line.
Gasps in the pub are filled with confusion. Surely the hand of Destiny was at work. Surely Fate had a personal stake in the outcome of this match. How could the penalty not go in the net?
The answer lies in the trajectory of the ball from Dida's hand. It flies downward – directly to the right foot of Xabi Alonso, who has charged the net. A quick sweep of his leg, and the game is tied, 3-3. The impossible has been accomplished. The first team in history to claw their way back from 3-0 down in this game.
But not quite. Liverpool haven't won yet. They have TIED the game. They have done as all of their global acolytes have begged - they have given themselves a chance.
The remaining minutes of the game, and of the extra time, are as tortuous as bamboo slivers under fingernails. The players are exhausted. They were knackered after the first half, and only superhuman effort allowed them to match Milan in the second, but players like Jamie Carragher who have been burning any metaphorical luminous device at any or all of its ends all season long are running out of energy.
With the skipper tracking back to play at right-back and covering for the now completely withered defensive three, Liverpool cling tenaciously on to the draw in order to get to penalties. Three things help them.
1. Djimi Traore - who has normally causeed nothing but consternation from wandering out of position, finds himself out of position, but in the right spot in the right time to spear away a Milan goal from the goal line.
2. Jamie Carragher - who has run himself ragged, and now has approximately three breaths left before the Angel of Death comes, is still throwing himself self-sacrificially at anything that might be harmful to the Liverpool cause. Harry Kewell injured himself almost an hour previously and left the field. Carra refuses to leave the field regardless of the heinous injuries compiled upon his body. His groin muscles are stretched to a pizzicato violin string. His ankles are burnt and torn. He will not leave battle if he is not victorious, and his team-mates follow his example.
3. Jerzy Dudek - who, at the death of the second half, miraculously manages two point-blank, zero-reflex saves, It's one thing to save a goal. It's another to save a goal from the European Footballer of the Year. It's something else completely again to save TWO goals from the European Footballer of the Year at a distance of less than six feet.
Add those things together, and suddenly, people are discussing fate and destiny again.
Extra time isn't even all that tense. AC Milan are still confused and shell-shocked, while Liverpool have burnt all their fuel, including the reserves, to get back into the game. The final minutes of the match, aside from Stevie G's stupendous defensive heroics at right back – a position which he not only commendably fills, but positively excels at. Milan try and attack down their left side through Serginho, but Stevie is there time and again to thwart them with pinpoint accuracy.
At the end of 120 minutes, everyone in the pub is already exhausted. James and I have done everything but chew on our scarves in the process of conceptualising, visualising and then willing the game to move in currents which are congruent with our thoughts. The adrenaline high from Liverpool's third goal has peaked, crested, and left those of us who are dedicated, committed observers lying aghast on the arid shore of ridiculous expectation. In other words, it would be absurd to wish for anything more from this game. Miracles have already happened, mountains have already been climbed, dreams have already come true. Who would dare to tempt fate and ask that Liverpool carry on and actually WIN the game?
Answer: I would. And so would little Max.
James' father has contributed to the communal wisdom at this point to observe that the phenomenal comeback, along with the miracle saves by Dudek on Shevchenko have indelibly changed the attitude of the Milanese. Their confidence is shot, and they are now weak. The rest of us around the table nod sagely and redouble our attention on the game. In the meantime, Carra has had a quick talk with the Dude. The conversation goes something along these lines:
Dudek: "What the hell am I doing?"
Carra: "Listen. Goalkeepers can't save penalty kicks. Everyone knows that. A penalty taker can put the ball anywhere that he wants. No one expects you to do more than you already have. You've done your job. All you have to do now is put these kickers off. Make them think about something. Anything except where they are putting that ball. Think of Grobbelaar in 1984. You're not playing to save their shots. You're playing for them to MISS."

Serginho steps up to take Milan's first penalty. Dudek, in a theatrical piece of gamesmanship, hands the Brazilian the ball.
The Milan player strides up to the ball, catches a glance of Dudek shaking his booty and doing bizarre jumping jacks. He consequently spoons the ball over the crossbar.
Liverpool 0 - 0 Milan.
Didi taks Liverpool's first penalty. I lean over and tell James exactly where the ball will go, and how the shot will be a goal. This is not a time for arrogance, nor even speculation. I know what will happen. I've seen Didi take penalties before, and I know which side Dida is weak on, considering Smicer's goal from open play. He's faster pushing off on his right foot and jumping to his left. Didi will hit it at knee-height with enough swerve to his left (the keeper's right) that it will hit the inner side netting before it will hit the back of the net.
Liverpool 1 - 0 Milan.
Andrea Pirlo steps up for the rossoneri. Again, Jerzy wiggles, shakes, shimmies, and waves to such an extent that Pirlo's shot is weak and at waist level. The Pole in the goal comfortably saves. The dream is becoming reality, and the pandemonium is reaching levels which cannot be ignored, even by a footy-ignorant nation such as Canada.
Liverpool 1 - 0 Milan.
Djibril Cissé strides to the spot for Liverpool. He wastes no time deliberating and smashes the ball with positively lethal intent into the right side of the net. The area around my table in the pub explodes. The shouting and screaming is deafening. Ears ring, eyesockets bleed, and the shouting goes on until my throat feels as though it's been leased by a symposium of frogs.
Liverpool 2 - 0 Milan.
At this point, the Merseysiders can wrap this up in two kicks if Milan miss and if John-Arne Riise scores with his thunderous left foot. Milan's Jon-Dahl Tomasson, who joined Milan on a free transfer from Feyenoord of Holland in 2002, seems unruffled by the tension rippling down from the ranks of the Liverpool fans. He replaced two-goal hero Hernan Crespo near the end of full-time, and looks to have been a substitution made with penalty kicks in mind. The Danish striker ignores Dudek's theatrics in the net before him and stares blankly at the turf in front of him as he lashes a shot past the lunging and shimmying Polish keeper.
Liverpool 2 -1 Milan.
The Norwegian steps up to take his kick against the now-shaken Dida. And errs on the side of caution. His trademark is a thunderbolt kick which, while not always accurate, is always unstoppable by human hands. This kick, however, proves to be a tame effort at trying to place the shot perfectly into the lower-left corner, and Dida reads it all the way toward saving it.
Liverpool 2 - 1 Milan.
Breaths are held tightly. Fingernails are chewed. The tension is unbearable. The pub is filled with thin wisps of cigarette smoke and the vapour of nervous sweat. In the stadium, the Red fans are still in full song. Milan's inspirational Brazilian midfield orchestrator strides comfortably to the spot and Dudek barely has enough time to wiggle his glutes back and forth twice before the young maestro strokes a perfect shot past him and into the back of the net.
Liverpool 2 - 2 Milan.
Next up for Liverpool is Vladimir Smicer, who scored the second goal, and has looked increasingly positive since replacing Harry Kewell in the first half. Tersely whispered prayers of "pleasepleasepleaseplease" are barely audible over the sound of grit teeth and tuneless humming symptomatic of ridiculously intense concentration. If Smicer scores, Milan must score with their final kick to stay alive in the competition. Liverpool are poised to take the initaitive, but the last remaining shooter for Milan is the reigning European Footballer of the Year and top scorer in Italy – Andrei Shevchenko.
Smicer is cool as a cucumber, and stares Dida down before launching an arrowed drive past him. The pub erupts. Liverpool now have the lead, the initiative, and a kick in hand (as it were). Even if Shevchenko scores, Liverpool can still win with the last kick of the penalties. Garcia, Alonso and Gerrard are all still available to take a kick.
Liverpool 3 - 2 Milan.
Shevchenko still looks rattled from the earlier miracle saves which denied him almost sure goals. I glance quickly at Fritz, who has been studying the psychology of the game almost intensely as I've been examining the tactical aspects. He sees the same look of weakness that I observe. James is beginning to allow for the possibility of a smile to creep around the corner of his mouth. Back on the field, the strapping Ukrainian seems nervous and out of sorts. His next touch of the ball will decide if his team wins or loses. The pressure of the European Championship weighs on him like a load of bricks, and he's already witnessed miraculous feats from the deranged-looking Polack in front of him.
Dudek's earlier physical shenanigans were already fairly ballistic, but he somehow manages to find another gear and frantically waves, hops and wiggles as Sheva takes his shot. By some fluke or other, he happens to find himself flying to his right as the ball is struck. Sheva's kick by some odd coincidence or twist of fate flies at the fully extended Pole, and the ball is smacked aside by Dudek's trailing hand.
Game Over.
Most people have no idea what it's like to unleash 21 years of frustration. There's a great scene in the film adaptation of Nick Hornby's "Fever Pitch" wherein the protagonist asks his love interest if she can remember something that she's wanted constantly for 20 years. Twenty years ago, those of us who were alive probably wanted a bunch of things - to be doctors or ballerinas or to have shiny toys or good grades. How many of those dreams live on for decades? How many fade away, to be replaced by other transitional goals and aspirations?
The dream of Liverpool once again being Champions of Europe began with the tragedy at Heysel and was amplified by the senseless deaths at Hillsborough. Through the resignation of King Kenny Dalglish, the horrid transitional period under Graeme Souness, the much-maligned "Spice Boys" period under Roy Evans, and the successful, but ultimately frustrating reign of Gerard Houllier, there have been those of us who have been living incomplete lives because of the imbalances, injustices and inconsistencies plaguing the team with which we grew up. In one year, we shared our grief with Juventus fans, and then as though by magic, flashed a light which illuminated the exile from Europe, the loss and defamation of the 96, the humiliation of a painful rebuilding period, and the resonating lack of respect from other clubs in England and abroad. It didn't repair the damage, but it vindicated two decades of suffering. Hope can result in fulfillment. Dreams can come true. Good things can happen to good people. Karma can work. You can pay it forward.
We were swept away by emotion. James nearly disemboweled his father by leaping up from the table and knocking the tabletop into Fritz' midsection. I was sobbing in relief and joy. But the moment was yet to come. All of the players and coaches queued up to receive their winner's medals, but the man who had steered them to triumph was the captain, and he let everyone one else collect their medals first. The European Champions' Cup stood next to the team on the podium, with everyone adhering to the convention that no-one touches the cup until the captain does. Djibril did a little dance around the plinth. Carra, still trembling with excitement and cramps, stalked around "Old Big Ears" with a mixture of awe and reverence. Rafa was happily burbling with some of the Spanish lads, inviting Fernando Morientes over, despite the striker having been cup-tied and unable to play a single European game for Liverpool all season.
Then Stevie stood under that most prestigious of trophies and at the behest of Lennart Johansson, hefted the huge jug over his head to the gleeful shouting of the throngs, fireworks, and volcanic eruptions of red confetti.
The pub was filled with tears and weeping, jumping and hollering. I hugged more grown men in fifteen minutes than I suspect I've ever hugged in my entire life previously. Seeing Carra and Stevie holding the cup aloft, facing a sea of Red fans and singing "Ring of Fire" was brilliant. The local boys stood side by side singing with the travelling contingent who had saved and scrimped for months to afford this trip from Liverpool.
I'll confess. I was hopping up and down like some sort of pogo-stick-equipped flea on a trampoline, blinking tears from my eyes and mopping the sweat from my brow with my scarf. My 1984 Champions' Cup Winners scarf.
We walked out into the bright summer sunshine of Whyte Avenue, and the world had changed. Birds no longer sang – they serenaded. The sky was no longer blue but a penetrating azure.
I quit my job, started a new one, moved into a new apartment - started a new life. After 20 years, I was free. And in that remarkable day, I was vindicated that work, patience, fidelity and trust were not enough. I needed to have faith. And I was rewarded. And Max recovered brilliantly and is now doing very well. Someday, he'll realize the role he played in this drama — that Liverpool didn't just win for us long-suffering acolytes, but for everyone with a good heart.
So there we have my story. Most likely not worth the wait, but it was something I needed to get out of my system and down on electronic media before I could move onwards and upwards in my life.
So, I'm going for surgery tomorrow morning. Good job that the lads won the European Super Cup, defeating CSKA Moskva in the Stade Louis II in Monaco on Friday. Three goals to the Russian single goal put yet another trophy in the Anfield cabinet, and another twinkle in my smile. And an international break this week means that I can devote my time to some non-footballing pursuits for a bit. So cheerio, and I'll see you the other side of the knife.

-mARKUS
^+Justice for the 96+^