Download 44 Years With the Same Bird by Brian Reade PDF

By Brian Reade

Fusing the blind ardour of a lifelong supporter with the chilly eye of an award-winning journalist, this can be an up-close and private view of the total glossy period of Britain's so much profitable soccer membership. From their first ever FA Cup win in 1965 to the Champions League defeat in Athens in 2007, this evaluate takes at the remarkable tales in the back of the forty eight trophies Liverpool has gained. Highlighting the memorable nights that propelled the membership to 5 eu Cups, 3 UEFA Cups, 12 titles, and numerous family cup triumphs, this account additionally discusses their sour disasters, the tragic failures in Sheffield and Brussels, and the barren years of the overdue 60s and the 90s.

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That the football team was a symbol of a reborn city, made famous across the world by The Beatles (at Number One again that week with ‘Ticket To Ride’). ) dominated popular culture, while our poets were shaking up all those arty-farties in London. An hour after midnight my grandad’s mate Billy Jones staggered through the door (now he did smell of pale ale) bearing exaggerated tales of what had really happened at Wembley. How it looked and felt in the flesh. How everyone down there said our songs and flags had been a revelation.

So, contrary to newspaper reports, Liverpool weren’t in the last eight of the FA Cup thanks to a Cally scramble but a St John diving header, which I rehearsed throughout Sunday like a Method actor priming himself for an Oscar-winning performance. By the time I reached the playground on Monday morning I was Brando on heat and every one of those woollybacks was going to get burnt. I’d even thought of an ingenious way of getting around the team-picking farce which always left me eating my bogies next to girls with skipping ropes.

With his cock dangling in my eye-line. At seventeen, life could only go downhill. S. Huge. Obviously. 1 MATCHSTICK MEN 20 FEBRUARY 1965 – BURNDEN PARK, BOLTON I was perched on my dad’s shoulders at the back of a sprawling, uncovered terrace, with Our Vic parked on the crash barrier in front, snarling at every banality that left my seven-year-old mouth. Through the big hole in my red balaclava, down past the bare knees which stuck out either side of my dad’s neck, I surveyed a sea of heads: flat-capped, bald, plastered with grease, flowing for what seemed like miles down to a bright green carpet, where tiny red-and-white figures moved in clusters, stopping regularly amid loud roars or deep grunts.

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