The Robert G. Barrett Experience

So, let me start by telling you a story. Back in 2014 I was touting around my first book, Borrowed Time, to a few eBook publishing organisations. A couple of days after sending it, I received a call from a guy, who said he liked it and it reminded him of his favourite author. A guy by the name of Robert G. Barrett.

Him: “Have you heard of him?”
Me: “Yeah, but I’ve not read a word.”

There it was. Some young clown trying to get his work out there, but hadn’t read one of Australia’s finest artistic treasures. Idiot! In any case, me being the curious sponge, I ended the call and started scouring the Internet for Robert G. Barrett's books and from there, I guess you could say the rest is history. After the necessary procurements, three pages into Bob's first novel, You Wouldn’t Be Dead For Quids and the cynic in me says: “fuck, I’ve spent the last five years copying this bloke!”

On the flipside, perhaps it was an aligning of stars? I do adopt that spiritual belief that things happen for a reason. You know, the book you pick up off the shelf, or the album you select off your iPod. The fact that Barrett passed away after a lengthy battle against bowel cancer further illustrated an aligning of the stars somewhat, as my Dad also battled against the same illness. Thankfully, he survived.

So was this the spirits coercing me towards RGB all along, or does my cynicism prevail? Yes, it does, I’m just another copyist. Although in this case, it’s largely irrelevant.

After reading the first five Robert G. Barrett novels, I have a question for you and it relates Barrett’s main protagonist, Les Norton. Is the big Queenslander from Dirranbandi the last Australian working class hero? I can almost hear the slight snigger, or high-pitched sigh. But seriously. Think about it…

Yes, we have athletes, actors, musicians and various other ambassadors around the world plying their trade in the world of stardom, but as far as ordinary working class heroes are concerned I put this to you. Fictitious or not, is Les Norton the last working class hero to ever grace Australian shores?
Here is an excerpt from The Godson.

"I wonder who that red-headed bloke is? He's come into town out of nowhere, flattened six of the best fighters in Yurriki plus the biggest man in the valley. Then he arrives at my dance in an army uniform drinking French champagne and imported beer like it's going out of style. And ups and leaves with the best young sort in the joint... Don't know who he is. But he's not bloody bad."

From all the Robert G. Barrett I have had the pleasure of reading thus far, this is the perfect summation of Les Norton. The man with fists like Darling Downs hams is somewhat made of Teflon throughout, but you can do nothing but shake your head at the man. Why? We’ve all known a Les Norton in our lives. That person who could seemingly write a book about themselves without even a hint of narcissism. And I’m not suggesting for one minute that Barrett based himself on Norton (despite many suggesting this to be the case, I think it’s bullshit).

Upon reading about Bob’s life, the one particular point of interest which I find amusing and embarrassing at the same time is the fact that many claimed Barrett to be a racist and a homophobe. On what grounds exactly ? Because Barrett’s characters teeter on the fringes of marginalisation? Here’s a little piece of advice. This doesn’t actually make the author himself that way inclined. It’s what Barrett experienced throughout his life, subsequently choosing to write about it through the voice of his characters. Lesson one in writing; write what you know. It’s called gritty realism and in Bob’s case, it was used fictitiously to constructive effect. Anyone suggesting otherwise is subscribing to a world which continues to revel within the realms of a destructive democracy. A world where common sense is long forgotten. A world where taking the piss out of all and sundry is seen as marginalisation, thus rendering satire as something akin to a rotting corpse.

After all, the man dedicated royalties to organisations such as Greenpeace and the R.S.P.C.A., as well as others. Not exactly behaviour one would associate with a creative persecutor. So why all the cat calls from his contemporaries, you ask? These perpetual slurs directed Barrett’s way were from the upper-echelons of the literary establishment and, in my opinion, were done out of pure spite and jealously. A classic example of Australia’s tall poppy syndrome, which doesn’t discriminate against various social demographics. Surely someone without an arts degree couldn’t possibly flourish in the literary world? And shock horror that the author in question could create a readership that boasts similar credentials? You want to talk about art. That’s fucking art! His ability to pick apart his detractors with his piss-taking antics held no bounds. It epitomised the larrikinism of Australian culture. 

And for the record, Barrett’s books were the most read within the Australia prison system once upon a time. I’m sure there’s many a copy of Davo’s Little Something and/or Mudcrab Boogie floating around the prison walls of Long Bay, Wacol et al.

Barrett was to Australian literature what the Beasts of Bourbon were to music in this country. Rough as guts, “raw as a greyhound’s dinner” and completely uncompromising. Quite simply, he didn’t give a fuck. It was real. It was art! He was undoubtedly one of the great artisans this country has ever produced. If only there were more Robert G. Barrett’s around, then Australia wouldn’t be enveloped in a midlife crisis. Someone not afraid to speak their mind and weed out the fools, as opposed to a political class and their empty-suit-bearing creators of policy, suppressing democracy and free speech more and more as each day passes.

Les Norton, the last of Australia’s working class heroes? Ironically, the very thought would probably have Bob turning in his grave.

By Simon K. 

P.S. Please visit this page which contains Bob's personal farewell.

FREE Book: The Scrapheap A Collection of Short Stories - Available Now!

Good morning folks,

The posts around these parts have dried up but with good reason. I have been working on some short stories and am pleased to announce that they are ready for consumption.

The best thing about this collection of short stories, titled The Scrapheap: A Collection of Short Stories,  is that you will not be required to get the cheque book out. This release is FREE.

A book description is below, as well as the cover and a link to download. There's some insight into how these stories developed, too, so for those bored enough on a Saturday morning to spare me five minutes, you can read by simply clicking the link located to your right, under "my books".

I hope you enjoy.

Description:

The Scrapheap: A Collection of Short Stories comprises of five bawdy tales throughout regional Australia. Within these pages you will meet Joey Wilson - a scouser living Australia on a Working Holiday visa who lands a job at Woolworths, stacking shelves. You will also find yourself out in the middle for a game a cricket where blood, sweat and tears are shed by young debutant, Nathan Hamilton. Then it’s straight to the pub with the irrepressible abattoir worker, Meat Axe, for an all in brawl or two. And of course, no Australian tale is complete without a foray on the Gold Coast, as number one ladies’ man and Borrowed Time’s bit part player, Gary “Hurricane” James, returns and does his best to etch his name into Gold Coast folklore. The place will never be the same.

Book Cover:

 

Link:

 

FREE DOWNLOAD - The Scrapheap: A Collection of Short Stories

 

By Simon K. 

The Burden of Hope: ATP, It's Time To Go

Let me start by saying I’m gutted. Truly gutted. Like many, All Tomorrow’s Parties meant the world to me. Yes, the world.

I was fortunate enough to attend four of these spellbinding weekends, not counting various other one-off events, such as Release the Bats and ATP in Australia spearheaded by The Drones. Over the past 10 to 15 years, many people have based their lives around this artistic institution, including sacrifices that have been made. From a personal point of view, I worked all year to save up my holidays just so I could travel to England from Australia to attend. I even based my honeymoon around Jabberwocky! Like many, at the time I took that particular cancellation on the chin, merely giving ATP a leave pass, because, well, it was ATP! An institution where lifetime friendships have been forged and memories will forever remain. When you’re having a shit day, you cast your mind back to Minehead or Camber Sands, having a ciggy and a cup of tea outside your chalet talking shit with your mates while seeing who can spot the biggest seagull. All of a sudden, the day isn’t so bad and that's not even mentioning the slew of incredible acts that have graced the stage at this festival. Yes, these are the imprints this great festival has left on many.

Now, I’ll probably be castigated for these comments. Called a cunt and various other delightful remarks. As per the tone of this blog, it seldom ventures into negative territory, but after weeks of deliberation, I feel that this needs saying.

With its legacy well and truly tarnished via the suspected activities of its founder, ATP doesn’t need to take a Rohypnol and go to sleep for the afternoon. The stone cold truth of the matter is that, for its own good, it actually needs to end. Enough is enough. Too many people have been hurt due to perpetual financial mayhem, shoddy business practice and an astounding lack of accountability.

There’s a long list of that have suffered at the hands of ATP, not limited to musicians, production crews, optimistic creditors impaired by the burden of hope, and most notably, the fans. The decibels of denial echoed by Barry Hogan’s devoted few won’t change that fact either, and are merely nothing more than a ceaseless ego stroking exercise at the mercy of blind faith.

As for this whole argument of anti-establishment sentiments and sticking it to the man. People have talked about corporate sponsorship and Hogan's unremitting refusal to go down that path. While the sentiment is most certainly admirable, by the same token a few Converse or Vans (or insert whatever) banners at the side of stage are merely wallpaper to most of us. Quite simply, it's all about the music, with or without a few advertisements from solid outside supporters. Say what you like, but sponsorship of this magnitude wouldn’t have impaired the awesomeness of ATP. It just wouldn’t have. Besides, dining at Minehead's Pizza Hut to the sounds Godspeed You! Black Emperor and Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds was quite unique and, actually, kind of fucking cool, if not slightly odd. I didn't see many boycotting Burger King, either, just quietly. A dose of saturated fat to suppress a hangover didn't hurt anybody...

In a cruel twist of fate, it’s a plausible argument to suggest that it was actually the fucking establishment which enabled ATP to operate within the paradigms of “the system”. The various companies created, the alleged shifting of assets and various other frugal practices demonstrated by a flawed businessman. All the sneaky loopholes within a defective financial system which empower those with imaginary business acumen to prosper. That doesn’t strike me as sticking it to the man. It actually strikes me as sticking it up the arse of your respected factions. Rubbing shoulders in a corporate world rife with turf accountants, which is quite ironic considering Hogan himself parted with the analogy that organising a festival is likened to, yes, a horse race. While the dubious specimens operating within the system of the establishment are as much to blame as anyone for this farce, that doesn’t exonerate Hogan himself from reproach. I’m no numbers guy, but fiscally it’s evident that the man is a disaster. The “yeah, she’ll be right, mate, we trust you,” mentality won’t wash anymore. Borrowing money to pay off past debts is a recipe for disaster and the very system enabling this to occur should be questioned more than it has, thus far. As a result ATP's cards should be well and truly marked.

As for certain quarters calling for government bailouts (because Spain and Poland do it, look at the bigger picture!) I think we all know the position of the British Government. Yes, the self-serving Tories don’t much care for a bunch of snotty idealistic middle-class kids with Pavement vinyl in one hand, a copy of The Guardian in the other. I can almost hear the collective echo from the Houses of Parliament; “Dip into your parents’ trust fund, you little fuckers”.

Finger pointing aside, of this there is little doubt. ATP’s legacy has been destroyed beyond repair. Its entrusted base of followers has been blinded by the sheer power of music (guilty) and a couple of slices of hedonism (hmm, okay, guilty there, too). For so many years that very base of followers made ATP the success it truly was, which, in turn, was presented to us by its architect, Barry Hogan; I sincerely thank him for that. But paraphrasing what Steven Patrick Morrissey once said. If you read your good press, then you have to read your bad press, too. Once the orchestrator of some of the greatest times many of us have ever experienced in our lives, sadly Barry Hogan is now the proverbial shepherd who has ushered his flock to the slaughter. A person who doesn’t know when enough is enough.

By Simon K.

 

Europa League Semi-Final: Liverpool F.C. Vs. Villarreal C.F. - 3-0 (3-1 on aggregate)

 

So, we’re through. Liverpool Football Club’s first European cup final since Athens in the Champions League back in 2007. An era where we were spoilt rotten when Rafa Benitez’s men constantly terrorised teams around Europe. Not only the team whom he managed, but Benitez himself struck the fear of god into all opposition back in those days. Take us on out your peril was the mantra. His tactical nous had shifted the paradigm of European cup competition. Now that paradigm is being morphed into a new guise, courtesy of one Jürgen Klopp, to the point where Liverpool are beginning to bear similar fruition to the Benitez days.

Looking at the statistics and they will suggest it the home leg against Spanish side, Villarreal, was something of a cakewalk. But 2-0 ahead against a very well organised opponent knowing that a solitary away goal would send the visitors through, it didn’t feel comfortable. Certainly not the levels of comfort supporters felt under Benitez. Not yet, anyway. A perfect example of that was Alberto Moreno’s careless nudge on Denis Suarez inside the box, which could have easily resulted in the referee awarding a penalty to the away side.

However, with the benefit of hindsight, it all proved somewhat academic in the end. Klopp’s go-to man in Adam Lallana put the tie to bed, neatly tucking home an initial scuffed attempt by Daniel Sturridge. We were through. The Liverpool faction of bed-wetters  suggesting we were out of the competition some seven days earlier thanks to a late Villarreal goal could rest easy (a large proportion probably weren’t around in the Benitez days). Onward and upwards. Unquestionably, this one was for the 96 and their families who, after the long and arduous battle for justice, finally received it. Destination Basel. History awaits with back-to-back Europa League Champions, Sevilla, standing in the way of silverware and a potential return to Champions League football. Here are my observations from the game.

      - The inclusion of Emre Can swung the tie in Liverpool’s favour. He was like a one man wrecking ball, penetrating through the midfield with his incessant marauding incursions. Most players coming back from injury take two to three games until they are in rhythm, but the young German was something akin to a new toy that had just been unwrapped from underneath the Christmas tree. When all is said and done at the season’s end, I think many will suggest that Emre Can has been Liverpool’s most improved and most important player under his fellow countrymen, Jürgen Klopp. It would be hard to disagree.

      -  Although Emre Can dismantled Villarreal’s midfield from the opening whistle, James Milner’s role in the demolition shouldn’t be overlooked. Earlier on in the season, Klopp seemed reluctant to slot the England international into the centre of midfield. With time, it’s evident that Klopp’s trust in Milner has become paramount, to the point where the vice-captain is now one of his most entrusted lieutenants. Our finest working-class hero since Dirk Kuyt.

     - From maligned and very much with one foot out the door, to becoming the team’s first choice centre-half, Dejan Lovren has become the bedrock of Liverpool’s defence under Klopp. It was another assured display from the big Croatian, who has galvanised a solid partnership with stalwart, Kolo Toure. How the tides have turned and although many players have divided opinion in the past (Martin Skrtel, Lucas Leiva et al), I don’t think anyone has turned it round quite like Dejan Lovren. It’s a great credit to the man.

     - Like the Can/Milner alliance, Lovren’s performances have been helped by Kolo Toure, who hasn’t let anyone down when called upon. For a 35-year-old to be performing the way he is at this level is a testament to the Ivorian's complete and utter professionalism. Don’t be surprised if he is offered another contract at the end of the season.

     - Roberto Firmino’s performance was one of his best in a Liverpool shirt. I’ve always maintained the belief that his work off the ball is just as important as the work he does on it, however the hallmark of his performance against Villarreal was his ability to keep possession. Oh, and that turn on Roberto Soldado…

     - Daniel Sturridge. Since coming back from injury, much has been made of his future at Anfield. From Klopp’s decision not to select him in every match to unremitting questions about his attitude, many of the backyard psychologists and body language experts would have been muzzled by Sturridge’s performance. Although not as lethal in front of goal as we are used to seeing, he hit the target when it counted. When all is said and done, I firmly believe the boy from the Midlands is Liverpool’s best player.

     - Like a conductor in front of his orchestra, Jürgen Klopp took centre stage at the end of the game, motioning to all quarters of the Anfield faithful in raw jubilation. The emotion with each fist-pump and each “c’mon!”  It was one of those moments that, in time, will be written into Liverpool Football Club folklore. I won’t lie, the scenes of triumph which filled my lounge room left me dewy-eyed. To think that Jürgen Klopp is the manager of Liverpool Football Club. It’s still a fact that is quite difficult to fathom.

      By Simon K.

 

Diaries Of A Wannabe: An Update on The Straight and Narrow and Other Things...

Once again, apologies for the lack of output throughout these parts of late. Along with the daily grind of fulltime employment (yuck), I have been working on a few projects which have been taking up most of my spare time. One including the follow up to Borrowed Time which, all things going well, could be out by the end of the year.

Thanks to all who have purchased my second book, The Straight and Narrow. If you are yet to check it out and feel slightly compelled to do so (recommend to degenerates or people who incessantly feel marginalised), then hit this page for purchase details and further information about the book. Below are some nice Amazon reviews, thus far.

 

 

Borrowed Time also garnered its first piece of public praise from the backwater readership.

 

 

A big thanks for the kind words to those three lovely people who felt compelled to cobbled together some words. On initial suspicions I thought it was my Mum, but alas she’s more of a Mills and Boon type of person!

Onward and upwards.

Simon K.

Discussion Points: Liverpool F.C. Vs. Everton F.C. - 4-0

If you can’t stick your head in for a word after Merseyside Derby delight, then when can you? Plus, work has been quiet of late, which is an accurate barometer for the level of activity around these parts…
 

Although the player ratings are a distant memory, I thought of cobbling together some observations from this morning’s match against our bitter (no other way to put it) rivals, Everton. A match in which the rampant Reds came away as 4-0 victors. Here are some recollections I took away from the match: 

• Players like James Milner were built for the pointy end of the season. While many displayed a furrowed brow throughout the early parts of the season, opinions have turned about as quick as a pit-bull does on its next door neighbour. In the calendar year, Milner has 14 assists to his name. More than any other player in the Premier League this year. While Philippe Coutinho and Roberto Firmino have been on form since the turn of the year, one could argue that it’s Milner’s form more than any other player which has set Liverpool in its current upward trajectory. For the season, Milner has racked up 18 assists and 7 goals in all competitions. I can still hear Manchester City fans bemoaning his exit. How they still yearn to have a player of his quality on the books. The England International’s experience is invaluable and quite simply, a price can’t be put on that. Credit must go to Brendan Rodgers for Milner’s acquisition. 
• Daniel Sturridge scored his 50th goal for Liverpool Football Club. Only Roger Hunt and Fernando Torres reached this milestone in fewer games. The boy from Birmingham has scored 42 goals in 66 Premier League games for Liverpool. 50 goals in 87 games in all competitions. Suffice to say, when Sturridge plays, Liverpool’s chances of success increase rather dramatically. We already knew that, though, right?
  

• Divock Origi was once again revelling in the furnace of first team football, putting the Reds ahead just before half-time. Things seemed to be going swimmingly until Ramiro Funes Mori committed an atrocious tackle that could well have ended the young Belgian’s season. Leading up to the match, Jürgen Klopp talked about derbies and in the heat of passion a player should injure himself, not others. Funes Mori didn’t get the memo in what was a dog act and to add further insult, the player’s actions after his dismissal were a complete and utter disgrace. Shameful stuff and I would imagine the Everton P.R. machine to be in overdrive in order to quell the flames which are moving their way regarding this spineless incident. 
• Mamadou Sakho. The cult hero was once again imperious and involved in the most pivotal moment of the match. His last ditch tackle on Romelu Lukaku was the turning point and subsequently, Liverpool scored twice shortly before the half-time break. The second goal scored by Sakho himself and indeed his second goal in as many starts; both of which he scored in front of the Kop. The city of Liverpool has always loved a fighter and a person who defies the odds. Sakho may have his critics (mostly from the blue half of Merseyside), but like Milner, those resistance voices recede as each game passes. The man simply is Boss! 
• I have always maintained that the sign of a good team is not how they score, but indeed, when they score. In my opinion, between minutes 40 and 45 are the most crucial in the game of football. Liverpool has scored four goals within this timeframe over the last two games. This statistic alone illustrates that this team is most certainly moving in the right direction and while some may see this as a minute facet of the team’s overall performance, it’s the minor attentions to detail, the one percenters, which can transform a team from a losing one to a winning one and Jürgen Klopp is undoubtedly steering this team into the latter waters.  
• Simon Mignolet devoured three hotdogs and a cup of tea (milk, no sugar) during the last 45 minutes between the posts. I understand one of the kind stewards at the Kop end procured these tasty delights for him. 

 

By Simon K.

Europa League Quarter-Final: Liverpool Vs. Borussia Dortmund - 4-3 (5-4 on aggregate)

Firstly, grovelling apologies for the lack of posts on here of late. I will explain a little more in a separate post later this week.

In the meantime, most of us of the Red persuasion are still catching our collective breath from last Thursday’s heroics. I’m still at great lengths to describe what actually happened and can’t honesty do so without being overcome with hypnotic emotion.

The words below succinctly capture the raw emotion of just what the result against Borussia Dortmund actually meant and will mean for years to come. It was a performance that will be ingrained in the history of Liverpool Football Club. Given the circumstances, it may have failed to reach the lofty heights of that auspicious night in Istanbul, but make no mistake about it. The Europa League quarter-final tie against one of Europe’s finest teams in Borussia Dortmund was a close rival to that defining evening in Turkey.

Regarding the below abstract, I would like to thank the author, Mark, who plies his trade for the written word over at the Red and White Kop forum. Known to the RAWK brethren as Yorkykopite, Yorky was kind enough to give me permission to use his words. For that I say thanks. The below dispatch is far too impressive to float adrift in the backwaters of the World Wide Web, so I thought I would share with those who are interested.

Justice for the 96.

Y.N.W.A.

 

Only Liverpool. Only Anfield.

Usually when supporters make this sort of claim about their club it's wishful thinking. Understandable, maybe, since every football fan wants to believe there's something special about their club. But when we say it about Liverpool you can hear the echo across the world. Cock an ear and you can hear it now. In Spain, in Italy, in France, in Latin America, in Asia...in Germany. "Only Liverpool. Only Anfield".

That was a special night and it was turned into History and Folklore the very moment it was over, so much so that Past, Present and Future all seemed to be wrapped up in each other as the players and coaching staff converged on the pitch at the end to immerse themselves in the full delirium. For a few immense minutes Anfield disappeared over the event horizon and you had to keep reminding yourself that the game was over and we had won and that Dortmund would not be coming back.

I loved Tuchel's befuddled interview at the end. There was no logic or rationale behind what happened, he said, and no reasonable explanation for the strange turn of events. Everything was going according to a logical plan and then....something unplanned happened. It was almost comically 'German' in its bewilderment and it needed another German, in the shape of the Liverpool manager, to shed some light.  "Something happened in the stadium", said Jurgen, "You could feel it, you could see it and you could smell it". Over the next 24 hours time and again he credited 'Anfield' as the "thing" - that never-say-die inner belief that comes sweeping off the old terraces here and which is the child not just of sentiment but experience. We know it can be done because it has been done - again and again. 

In the aftermath people mentioned St Etienne and Roma, Inter, Chelsea and Olympiakos - famous games where we'd defied the odds to emerge victorious. And of course they mentioned Istanbul (as, apparently, did Klopp himself at half time). Oddly enough no one seemed to mention the closest parallel of all (since it was in a UEFA Cup Final here in '76). But many RAWKites will remember the Reds being rather outclassed by a fine FC Bruges side led by the brilliant forward Lambert and falling 0-2 behind before the Kop helped suck in 3 Liverpool goals in 5 minutes to send us on our way to UEFA Cup trophy #2. Who'll bet against us now going on to #4 after this similar ride? 

And, boy, what a great tournament this has become and what a valuable trophy it really is. It's no exaggeration to say that the most passionate and most meaningful European clash of the week was at Anfield, just as it had been a few backs against Manchester United. Is this the year that the Champions League takes a back seat to the Europa? It's hard to be objective, of course, but I think it is.

We were being outclassed weren't we? Just as with Bruges 40 years ago, Dortmund looked too slick and too clinical. Two mistakes by our two Brazilians high up the field were instantly and terrifyingly punished. Their revitalised midfield appeared to be chock full of jet-heeled players - Reus most obviously, but Castro and Weigl too -  who were able to cruise with the ball into whatever narrow gaps we left and send crisp and penetrating passes to the outrageously gifted pair of Mkhitaryan and Aubemeyang. For 15 minutes we simply couldn't get a grip - our defence forced in to a series of horrible first-team clearances that simply found another yellow shirt ready to institute the next mass attack. Meanwhile our expressive talents had no wriggle room at all. Firmino looked off the pace, Coutinho was mobbed every time he got the ball and Lallana, for all his running, simply found cul de sacs.

But then, credit to the boys, they did begin to get a foothold of sorts. A Lallana swivel set up Origi who was denied by an excellent tackle in the 16th minute, while the same two players combined to present Alberto Moreno with a decent chance at the far post. Then in the 20th minute Lallana, of all people, lost his sextant and failed to locate his standing foot with the goal gaping. But a little belief had been injected into the Reds and from then on the contest was about trading blows and Dortmund knew they had a game. They continued to be the more incisive but with Coutinho getting more of the ball and the excellent Moreno hitting clever infield balls and opening up the left wing we started to look worthy opponents, as we had in the first leg.

I'll leave someone else to describe the second half. Maybe prose isn't the right vehicle and we should wait for an epic poem to be written instead. It was just unreal, although at 3-3 it was also inevitable, as Tuchel later admitted. In the last chaotic five minutes, played to a frenzied Anfield symphony, it was almost certain that something had to give, some pillar had to come crashing down. Our players sensed it, Moreno acting - twice - as ball-boy at opposite ends of the pitch to save precious seconds; Joe Allen scampering first right, then left, then right again, in search of a place to stick his sword.

And then a moment of sublime cool. Milner had to hoist that free kick into the penalty box you thought. But, no, Sturridge had a better idea. Rather than facing an easy ball into the box from way out Sturridge's courage - and Milner's desire to turn the free kick into a One-Two - meant the Dortmund defence was suddenly facing something more awkward. The fact that Sturridge messed up before recovering to produce an unexpectedly quick pass into Milner's path simply added an extra twist to the drama. A brilliant goal to finish a brilliant match.

A match full of passion, and empty of histrionics - no cheating (well almost no cheating), no diving, no time wasting, no feigning injury, no inflicting injury. Such spirit from both teams. Such respect for the game.

A word on the skipper for the night. Yes, his corners were bad. But James Milner edged out Lovren and Emre Can for Man of the Match for me. Forget the corners and look at the quality if his crossing from open play. A lung-busting run on the right and a perfect low cross might have been converted in the first half. Then of course at the end he lengthened his stride beautifully to collect Sturridge's clever pass and float a "just fucking hit me" cross onto the head of the big Croat. And how far did Milner run (and run with purpose)? It must have been a half marathon as he went in search of space to receive the ball and support colleagues in distress. He was always there and always ready to take responsibility.

So another legendary night for Anfield, and across the football world homage was duly paid. In the German press it was admitted that not even Dortmund's stadium has ever come close to matching the "intensity" of Anfield on Thursday.  Maybe the reason is obvious. As admirable as the Dortmund following is in many ways, it is not 'in the moment'. Others on this site, and the Anfield Wrap, have alluded to this, the oddly regimented nature of their travelling support.  Football atmospheres are about dialogue, not monologue. The crowd feeds off the team which feeds of the crowd. That is why, when it works properly, the fans are called the '12th Man'. They are actually playing the game. But you can't play the game if you're facing the wrong way, as Dortmund's cheerleaders do, and treating atmosphere like it's a mechanical ritual or a piece of orchestration in search of a game. You can't be part of the game as a fan if you can't see what's happening on the pitch because some massive flag keeps blowing across your line of vision. You can't be a proper fan - or even a proper man - if you're been told what to do by a bloke with a drum and a loudhailer.  And I wonder how much genuine inspiration players take from the constant drumming and chanting that bears no relation to anything they are doing on the pitch?

Of course that sort of support will never catch on at Anfield. It's a bit 'North Korean' for us, a bit too much like totalitarian kitsch. But wouldn't it be a marvellous thing if we could bottle the brew we manufactured on Thursday night and take a healthy swig before every home game? Klopp and the boys deserve no less.

In the meantime Europe's watching us again. Come on You Mighty Reds.

 

Words by Yorkykopite.

 

Simon K.