Liverpool, for Real by Glenn Bowden

Author:Glenn Bowden [Bowden, Glenn]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2013-09-08T04:00:00+00:00

10. Man U v Liverpool

When Chris had driven me past Old Trafford the previous Sunday, I feigned hunger, pretending to have mistaken the stadium for the largest McDonald’s restaurant I’d ever seen. The glass exterior of the East Stand entrance and the modern grey and brown façade made it look like a suburban style McDonald’s, just a thousand times bigger.

A conversion would be easy. First, pull down everything Man U-related. Second, erect the golden arches. Third, replace the Old Trafford turf with that spongy playground surface, add a few swings and slides and the kiddies would come from far and wide.

In no time the second largest stadium in Britain would be the largest McDonald’s in the world. After a few years we could all pretend that Manchester United never even existed. Judging by what Roy Keane and Sir Alex Ferguson said about their fans, all you’d need is a McPrawn burger on the menu and they’d barely notice the difference.

You can’t tell me that Malcolm Glazer hasn’t thought about it. Who knows, it might entice him to visit more often. Alas, the night before my return to Old Trafford that marvelous vision of McManchester came back to haunt me. I dreamt that I was in the stadium, trying to watch the actual game while growing terribly frustrated by a series of rotating circular playgrounds. Big mechanical arms moved the rotating playgrounds from left to right in front of the stands. Even worse was the discovery that each playground was packed with Malcolm Glazer clones, red bearded fatties wearing head bands and netball skirts -swinging, sliding, jumping up and down – even shooting hoops. Just when one playground was out of the way, another would take its place, obstructing the view of the pitch. I took to scampering up and down the aisles to catch a glimpse of the football but I was chased by faceless ground staff into dark tunnels filled with rats.

It seemed that no one had a problem with the lunatic setup but me and before the game had even finished – God knows who was even winning – I had to flee from the so-called Theatre of Dreams out of fear for my mental well-being. I did so with a full body jolt and a cerebral whack back into consciousness. At first, I wasn’t fazed. Just a little nightmare, I thought, staring into the darkness. But when it became apparent that getting back to sleep wasn’t possible unless I actually re entered the dream, I realised I had a problem. Cue several hours of nodding off and waking up seconds later – considerably more bamboozled every time.

The sluggish, dreary, sense of foreboding I felt when it was time to get up was hardly surprising. I showered, dressed and ate breakfast on autopilot before finding my way to Lime Street station.

On board the train it seemed the other Liverpool fans were in a similar state. For a moment I wondered whether we’d shared the same dream – a

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