Three weeks into the new Premiership campaign, fresh off a startling 3-0 loss at West Bromwich and an even more startling 2-2 draw against Man City at Anfield, Liverpool was back at it today against Arsenal. It was not pretty. Unless you like Arsenal, in which case go fuck yourself, get off this godforsaken website immediately and find some traffic to walk into.
My teams blow. This is a preordained fact of life that I am still begrudgingly coming to terms to. You'd think I'd be all in on this concept by now, having signed up to write on a website that is built around sports sorrow and futility. But, optimist/fool/dipshit that I am, I wake up every weekend expecting the team to win, and every week I'm thrown down into some deep well of sorrow where my only friends are the snakes from Raiders of the Lost Ark and an 8-bit version of the dude from Pitfall. That dude was gnarls.
Even with my attempts to lift spirits by making Mrs. Barrister and Yachtsman pancakes, this morning was no different.
Deadline day has passed, of course, so this is our squad for the next few months. Clumsy first touches, negligible ability to finish, dwarfed height on set pieces, an aging and sometimes infuriatingly inept captain, and a fan base of knuckle-draggers that will make us all want to abandon the spirit of "You'll Never Walk Alone," if only for a while.
I'm not in a good place today. Fuck Ian Ayre, fuck Fenway Sports Group, and fuck those fucking Gooners for coming into our house and douching on our faces so thoroughly.
If you need me, I'll be in the shower.