“Hey Paul, did you forget to do a column?”
“Hey Paul, why are you not uploading anymore? Did something happen?”
“Paaaaaul, did you forget all about Anfield Edition’s column?”
Of course I didn’t forget about you. I have a very strong sense of urgency and order when it comes to the things I will never forget.
The first one is updating my column every once in a while.
The second one is Dre.
Listen, I was away. I needed to relax. I needed to find myself because a man can only take so much.
Missing out of literally EVERY. SInglE. onE. of the transfer targets in my previous column was bad. Add that to the pain of not getting a decent full back, a decent attacker and being left with nothing but a shitty inconsistent ghost of a football player that is Phil Coutinho to get us goals and wow…A man can go crazy. But a man didn’t go crazy. Instead, a man has been proved wrong in a way OHHHHHHHH so miraculous. Liverpool, as it turns out, are PRETTY DAMN GOOD. Milner is a left back! Coutinho is Messi! Firmino is Coutinho! And Mane is the world’s greatest discovery since someone found out dabbing can make you a world record transfer fee player!
Every once in a while, a miracle happens! For Liverpool, a miracle is nothing like hmmmm, walking on water. Orrrr feeding a bunch of people with one Wotsit. It’s really nothing much more than “not-doing-football-so-badly”. But for a club that is a longstanding meme of mediocrity this shit became THE REINCARNATION OF JESUS H. CHRIST! In the face of the saviour, all of the problems turn out to be completely irrelevant. Because some random pretzel-munching gegenfraud turns out to know better than a bunch of so-called football experts of Twitter!
Ah yes, the same cockwombles, the same cuntwombats who now have a plethora of verified checkmarks to act as online penises. They helicopter them around to the plebs not so lucky, writing every single website they know in their bios in order to pretend to be actual journalists.
Now listen. I have nothing against a good ol’ dick measuring contest. In fact, I’d be happy to participate in one if I had any chances of winning it. But-MY-DEAR-DECEASED-AUNT, why does your checkmark mean you’re suddenly a respected sports figure? You’re the same asshole like you used to be – only now with a bunch of pixels to show your online cock off! If that checkmark is reaaaallly supposed to become a part of your CV – I get it. We all need to work. So while you’re at it, delete those awful football opinions of yours because no self-respecting corporation will hire some idiot who doesn’t rate Roberto Firmino, no matter how-fucking-verified he is.
But I spoke too soon. Perhaps having a registry of people online can serve a really good purpose…Something like…
Ah yes, of course! I bow to the good people of Twitter. Despite them killing off all sorts of free speech. Despite them siding with corporations to maximize their profits and pry the content out of the hands of people! Despite killing off their most successful project to date because they can’t control the fun in it…Despite ALL of those things, they still found a way to get all the offenders in one place. The list is not completed without me there. But it’s a great work in progress and I congratulate the knobheabs for that.
What’s next, what’s next…WELL OF COURSE.
Twats left and right, including the good reporters of Daily Mail, your #mcm, who definitely has lice and of course, yer da, have all shared a picture of Liverpool’s net spends compared to the rest of the okay clubs in the league. In fact, if you’re a jolly good fellow who has been blessed with a very short memory, God bless your soul, here it is:
Cray-zee, isn’t it? Jurgen Klopp, you old gegenbarking dog, you’ve done it again. Fooled everyone with your trickery, charm and glasses. Bamboozled the transfer markets. Saved the world’s economy!
Ooooooonly it’s not exactly like that. Jurgen Klopp is not a financial genius you make him out to be. Jurgen Klopp is, in fact, someone’s mum. Let me explain.
So there’s this dipshit in the neighbourhood who may very well be you. Yes, you. Screw you. The hypothetical dipshit uses his mum’s money to buy himself the new Xbox. The hypothetical ungrateful thundercunt doesn’t even play the fucking Xbox, because all he does online is tweets at Gary Lineker, shite video edits, calling people victims and hentai porn. Since you can do none of those things on a gaming console properly (trust me, I’ve tried), the hypothetical waste of a half decent cumshot leaves his Xbox to rot in the corner. An ex-£350 machine is now so dirty and sad, instead of AAA titles it houses a family of depressed raccoons and a bunch of West Ham fans.
Which coincidentally was one and the same.
“Payet has given a transfer req-WHaaaaaAAATTTT?”
The raccoons cry in horror. The mum is wearing a pink robe with hair curlers, fighting the bloody pests off with a broom. Jurgen Klopp is that cunt’s mum, because he’s taken the dunce’s Xbox and sold it through a Facebook group for like £150 and a basket of apples.
Now let’s ponder. Did mum just earn 150 quid? Or did the forebearer of the Microsoft-supporting cretin simply gain back what was rightfully hers and reinvested it back to buy food? I think it’s the second option. Jurgen Klopp is our beautiful mother who is buying us the food we need. And he’s spoon feeding all of us babies as we look at him with an admiring glance.
He’s taking out all of the garbage because he has to. That’s his job, to look after all of the mess someone has done. Jurgen Klopp looks around the room that has been left to him:
- Christian Benteke is an Xbox One. Pretty cool and horrendously big.
- Joe Allen is Google Glasses. Waaaaaay cool but waaaaaay past the age it was/could’ve been amazing.
- Martin Škrtel is HTC Wildfire. Great in like 2010 but right now, only decent for someone in Turkey.
- Luis Alberto is a Furby. No one knew why you bought it then and sure as fuck no one rates it now, except a bunch of niche hipsters.
- Jordan Rossiter is a Nexus Q. You thought it was super neat for like two weeks but now it’s literally one of the saddest sights you’ve ever seen – and you saw a penguin getting battered over the mother of his children, FOR GOD’S SAKE, THIS SHIT WASN’T ON HAPPY FEET WHAT THE FUCK
- Jose Enrique is a tub of Celebrations from 2002 with nothing but mouldy Bounties left in it.
Jurgen Klopp has taken all of this garbage, put it in a huge bag and sold it online for actual fucking currency. And then he’s bought a bunch of really important stuff. Stuff that matters. Food that will make you strong and make you dream of a Premier League title which we might not even bottle, because there’s no final for us play there.
Jurgen Klopp takes care of us so we can be strong.
Jurgen Klopp is the best mother you could ask for.
You are my mother and I am your baby.
Any chance I can suck on them titties?
I’ll cry if I won’t get them.
Shoutout to Google for helping me finish this article.
See you next time.
There’s something huge along the way but my computer’s screen has done a howler so I don’t bother. But eventually I’ll finish it.
Call me a nonce on @Kolology and I’ll stop having long sensual chats with your mother via Skype.