Right then, before everybody gets too carried away with the football side of things, I think it’s high time we all remembered what these cup runs we’re currently enjoying are really all about. Why we embark on the damn things in the first place. The REAL meaning of life as it were.

You concur? Why, of course you do.

Yes, folks. The tour round the city in the open-top bus I’m referring to. That icing on the cake we used to take so much for granted will be back. That annual opportunity for the city’s proletariat to join in the fun and share all the glory. A deliriously ecstatic army of Liverpudlians, young and old, decked out in red and white, basking in that balmy late May sunshine that always seemed to shine down on us; righteous souls that we were. The cue, meanwhile, for our Evertonian friends to retreat to the refuge of their homes and chew the tops of their kitchen tables, whilst desperately cursing their birthright.

Now as someone who has attended every single one of these occasions down the years, don’t even begin to ask me why I relish them quite so much. I really can’t explain it. I just do.

Perhaps it’s simply the joy of seeing so many ordinary souls who, for one reason or another, can’t attend the games, having the chance to welcome their team. Maybe it’s the sheer delight in knowing that so many Blues will be in their back-kitchens getting splinters between their teeth. Whatever it is - and the reasons will no doubt continue to baffle sociologists at The Arkles for many years to come - one aspect of these tour homecomings has never changed.

The speed of the flippin’thing.

More often than not, the bus would zoom past like an Express Pizza van driven by Nikki Lauda pursuing James Hunt. A fleeting whiff of exhaust fumes and a rapidly diminishing dot on the horizon would often be your sole memory of the entire homecoming.

Of course, experience of previous homecomings should have alerted us all to what was in store. The thing is, though, as with everything else in life, you never seem to learn, do you? And so, invariably, inexorably even, events would follow the same pattern as in previous years.

Back at the house, whilst decking out the kids and next door’s pet armadillo in their all red paraphernalia, you’d be tuned into the local radio to monitor the progress of the team’s return. The guy in the Radio car would be giving his running countdown of when the team’s bus was about to start out from Speke Airport. You, meanwhile, would be trying to gauge it so you arrived at Queens Drive a few minutes before the bus. Right across the city it would be the same.

In each street, as if to order, everyone would pour out of their houses at the same time for the trek up to Queens Drive. It would be like a scene from Exodus. Up front, a guy with a dirty big walking stick dressed like Moses. Behind him, a snaking red convoy of kids on scooters, babies in prams, grannies in wheelchairs, grandads in pyjamas. All converging on the Drive to salute their conquering heroes. Dutiful ones would synchronise their watches to ensure they’d timed their trek just right.

"Yeah, he said on Radio Merseyside they’d just left the airport."

" Are you sure he said they’d left?"

"Yeah. Certain. Trust me. It’ll be perfect. Just five minutes wait, there’ll be."

"Five minutes?"

Yeah…on the dot…I wasn’t in charge of Bomber Command for nothing, you know."

Famous last words.

An hour and a half later there’d be no sign. Not a sausage. Not even Tom Saunders on a push bike. Still, most of us would remain cheerful. So typical, of course, of a Scouse gathering. We knew standing like lemons on Queen’s Drive was infinitely preferable to festering at home like our Blue cousins who by this time would have started on their second course of the evening - the table legs.

Nevertheless, some nerves would inevitably get frayed.

"I thought you said five minutes? We’ve been here almost two hours."

"Well, don’t blame me. It’s not my flippin’ fault! It’s that flamin’ idiot on Radio Merseyside again. Same as last year. He always gets it wrong, that pillock. Useless he is."

"Well, if you knew he was wrong, why didn’t you say? We could have stayed in the house and watched Corry instead. Bomber Command…Huh!"

The husband’s glare could have grilled a quarterpounder at a hundred paces. His wife, though, would remain oblivious.

Of course, what neither of them. Not the Air Vice-Marshall. Nor his wife. Nor, more significantly, the poor maligned Radio Merseyside reporter. Indeed, what none of us had bargained for - was Terry McDermott spending quite so much time in the airport loo. The bus, in fact, hadn’t even left Speke. Nor Terry, the toilet.

Still, eventually, it would come. The pay-off. That beautiful reward for all the patience and endless hanging round was actually about to happen. Now was the time to make your move.

First, you’d wriggle as near to the front of the crowd as you could. Then, standing on the head of a conveniently sited old aged pensioner, you’d crane your neck for the best possible view. And there, in the hazy distance, you would spot the object of your pilgimage. Hurtling over the Rocket Flyover like a runaway juggernaut. A red and cream blur approaching at the speed of light.

Then the moment of truth. Your communion with the bus and its precious cargo. You would brace yourself; tell yourself that this time, no matter how fast the thing was travelling, no matter how determined the driver was to break the world land speed record, you were going to take it all in. You were going to savour the moment just like the players always try to do at the Cup Final. To soak up the entire experience. Pick out every player, every official, every wife, every girl friend. Even every last ribbon adorning the cup. This time, it really would be special.

You were kidding nobody, of course. Least of all yourself. And certainly not the demon driver of this mini rocket trip round the city. For he already had the notches of untold thousands of crushed hopes and aspirations on his steering wheel. A further clutch including your own would scarcely even register.

And so it would be gone. Vamoosed. Passed in a flash before your very eyes. And you? Well, you’ve not seen a dicky bird. Let alone one of your heroes. And, sadly, that would be that. The homecoming would be over. For another year.

Instantly the huge crowds would melt away. Disgruntled pensioners would be left nursing squashed heads. Everybody would begin their weary trek back home, swapping sightings and wondering once again why the heck they bothered in the first place.

"Recognise anybody?"

"Nah, I flippinwell blinked again, didn’t I. Same as last year. I don’t think I’ll bother next year...Mind you, I said the same thing then and I’m still here, aren’t I? What about you?"

"I think I recognised someone at the front of the bus."

"Oh, aye. Who was that, then?"

" The driver... I think it was Alfie Lancaster who used to be on the 68 route…"

"…Oh, yeah, I remember him… he never used to slow down then, either…"

"…What about any of the players?"

"Nah, too fast."

"I think that was Terry Mac in the front, though."

"How could you tell it was him?"

"He was slumped over the side with his eyes all glazed over and a silly grin on his face."

"Oh aye, yeah... Sounds like Terry, that."

"What about the cup? Why d’yer think they had it at the back of the bus this time?"

"What d’yer mean? It was at the front, wasn’t it?"

"What was that glistening at the back, then?"

"Dunno! Maybe it was the sun shining on the top of Ronnie Moran’s head…"

"…Yeah, another blinder from Ronnie…"

"Did you see Tommy Smith right at the back, by the way?"

"Nah, all I could see was the back end of the bus."

"What d’yer mean, soft lad - that WAS Smithy…"

Happy days, eh? Let’s all hope that they are once again just over that Rocket Flyover. And do you know what? The way I feel at the moment, I couldn’t care less if they really did make the tour sat on an Exocet missile. Just as long as I know they’ve got a trophy or two with them. That will do for me.

Small mercies, eh? You bet.

Wouldn’t you just know it, eh? Short straw or what? In order to commemorate his RAOTL fanzine’s fiftieth edition, John Pearman has only gone and “requested” me to do a piece on the Main Stand. Yeah, to celebrate that notorious den of iniquity - er sorry antiquity - we all know and love.
Cheers mate. As if I haven’t lost enough credibility already amongst my fellow Main Stand afficionados by re-living my early seventies rip-snorting Albert-cum-Kop days these past few months, he now wants me to spill the beans about my idyllic rest home these past eighteen years. What is it with this guy? Is he some kind of sadist or something? Does he want to completely alienate me from both sections of the Anfield community?

I mean, I’ve never told the world about his obsession for manually cultivating the perfect giant marrow so why does he want me to look a complete meff in the eyes of all these good people? Could it be something to do with the fact his old girl came from Bootle and that wicked sense of humour they pass onto their first born has finally borne fruit?

No? Thought not, but you never know do yer?

Anyway here goes, folks. This here is my fond little tribute to the good old Main Stand and all who snore in her.

So what can you say about the oldest piece of Anfield - it’s okay Ronnie I’m not talking about you mate - that hasn’t already been kept quiet about by anybody with half a brain to their credit? Myself excepted of course. Whisper it from the rooftops you people! Better still, keep it to yourself in case you bore anyone to death. The Main Stand is everything you would ever want it to be. And less besides.

What’s that you say? A load of arl bollocks? Okay then, how’s about this for a kick off?

Do you lot actually realise the Main Stand is the natural home to many of Liverpool’s most loyal followers? It is true, you sceptics! Or indeed that the term ‘diehard’ was, in fact, coined for some of the fellas who populate its ancient Anusol smeared orifices? Cream my arse! Again perfectly true. And not without good reason either.

Take the guy who sits next to me. Do you know this fine old chap has actually occupied the same seat for over seventy years? That’s right, fellow pilgrims. Seventy years with his brittle little botty in the same little wooden receptacle! Without a single break! Or a splinter for that matter!

Impressed? Well you damn well should be.

Now old Ernie, as we all fondly refer to him, may not exactly be Liverpool’s most vociferous fan. Indeed, I doubt very much whether even he, himself, would ever lay claim to that title. Fact is he’s never opened his gob in forty-five years, so rumour has it. Certainly not since I’ve sat next to him anyway. Then again would you make much of a din if, like Ernie, you’d been dead for twenty five of them? I mean, Christ, what else could you expect from the fella? And besides, what’s the odd chant or two when compared to Ernie’s solidarity?!? It makes some of those craven Kopites who follow the Reds round Europe seem positively fickle! Or alive even! Anyroad, as it happens, I understand that this business of Ernie being deceased for twenty five years is a complete fabrication in any case. Fact is, it’s barely fifteen years. And three of those don’t count because they were under Souness!

Who’s counting though?

Of course, what a lot of those who sneer about the occupants of the Main Stand don’t seem to realise is that beneath that placid exterior of its patrons burns a fierce rampaging passion matched only by those dear old souls in Anfield Cemetery. Once again it’s true. In other words, most of what we get up to is actually unseen by the world at large.

You doubt me? Okay then let us take a typical Saturday routine for your run-of-the-mill Main Stand patron.

Now most of you probably think that your bog-standard Main Stander’s contribution to life at Anfield is pretty limited. Some might say non-existent, in fact. That it begins with the regimental unveiling of the Tartan car blanket and the opening of the Thermos flask while the rest of the ground is bellowing out ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ just prior to kick-off and ends with a collective yawn as the ref blows the final whistle.

Oh dear! How wrong can you be, you sad deluded little Kopites!

The actual fact of the matter is that by the time all you part-time supporters are giving vent to your paltry little dirges, your average Main Stander has already put in a full day’s devotion to Anfield duty. No half-measures for these fellas.

The day will have started with the ceremonial zimmer procession from the Hartnup Street Aged Persons Hostel just off Walton Breck Road right up to the hallowed gates of the Main Stand. This is a time-honoured little crawl which takes place every other week under the shadows of the Kop. And you lot think you have fun in the ale-house? Huh!

Each occasion is vanguarded by one of the ever-dwindling band of able-bodied Main Standers selected to lead the 12,000 strong zimmer-wielding convoy on its 150 yard route to the match. Taking approximately two and a half hours the procession is a joy to behold for anybody with a truly sad life. Indeed, there are many Kopites who now prefer to watch this ceremony rather than partake in the pre-match debauchery of the adjacent Park and the Albert hostelries. The knobheads! The highlight of the procession is the packed lunch stop approximately half way along the route. A seagulls delight. What! I’ll say.

Of course the day’s real action is still to follow. Once they have all been safely fireman-lifted into their respective seats by the army of Volunteer Geriatric Care Workers it is time for the afternoon’s Tombola and Whist Drive.

Yes folks, you’ve sussed it. It is this little piece de resistance which whips the Main Standers into that state of utter pre-match frenzy with which so many of you regular attendees at Anfield will be all so familiar. And you all thought it was simply their natural state! Boy have you lot got much to learn! Then, just prior to the kick-off come the piping hot mugs of Horlicks and the Marie biscuits. By the time the match kicks off the entire Main Stand is to be found in one of its world famous communal snoozes and yet another great Anfield occasion will have passed them by. Once again like nothing else on this planet the Main Stand will have rocked…itself to sleep.

If only I was joking!!…ZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

For me, in many ways, the performance against Charlton ranks as our most impressive of the season.

I realise in the wake of the magnitude of recent performances/results my statement might appear outlandish, possibly a bit delusional even. The reality is, however, that it is precisely in games such as yesterday that a team with any lofty aspirations simply has to fall back on a 'middle level game' to deal with such tenacious 'middle level' opposition.

Our abilities to vanquish opponents of the highest class has, for some time now, not been in question. As I wrote in that recent 'David Lynch' piece and as many others have expressed too, this team does not appear to have a problem in raising its performance level against the best. Rather its problem has been against those infuriating teams - such as Charlton - that have reasonable standard players throughout the their team who themselves raise their own games against us both individually and collectively.

What we have seen in the recent past is such teams hustling and harrying Liverpool out of their stride. Charlton were doing that yesterday as well as we have seen any team of their quality level do so. In recent seasons we, meanwhile, have struggled to adapt to such disruption and have tended to resort to a long-ball fall-back plan which has often comes unstuck. The consequence has tended to be that the outcome of such games has invariably hung in the balance. Certainly you could NEVER put your money on us grabbing a win.

Not any more it would seem.

Yesterday, we saw a resurgent Liverpool resort to their latest fall-back plan. And what a plan. What a heartening revelation it was to witness us play well within ourselves, yet continue to play decent team football and in the end make our superior talent, individually and collectively, pay dividends.

The upshot was a performance and a result that for me announced that we are certainly witnessing the infancy of a team that, notwithstanding the massive over-achievement of last season, will surely now go on to re-write our history books.

Indeed, when you reflect on the youthfulness of the current squad and the prospect of those two French lads plus Vignal, Baros, Walsh and others still to emerge, the prospect is positively awe inspiring.

Gerard Houllier - and Phil Thompson for that matter - you have an awful lot to answer for. Indulging people in the way you are doing to us is not really the thing to do. That said, seeing as it's you, we'll allow you to continue doing it. I, for one, can put up with once again being spoilt to high heaven!

Haven’t got much time but in memory of him and my own father who simply idolised him I simply MUST squeeze in a few words about Billy Liddell. I’ll try to polish them up some other time.

Sir William Liddell - to bestow upon him a title he more than earned - WAS Liverpool Football Club. He was its spirit. He was also its honesty, its integrity, its heart and its passion.

To Reds such as my mother and father and others of the pre-Bill Shankly generation he represented a ticket to acceptability; to some sort of footballing respectability. The “Liddellpool” tag the club was awarded was no hype or coincidence. It was fact.

My father would tell me that Billy kept the team going virtually single-handed during that dispiriting eight year Second Division spell we endured in the fifties. Catching the tail end of that era myself, I suppose I had my own feel for what he meant, though of course as a young Liverpudlian simply seeing a red shirt on green grass was such a thrill in itself it tended to dilute any disappointment with the team performance. Nevertheless, with so little of any footballing eminence to which to cling during those dark days, Liverpudlians really did used to bask in the comforting knowledge that in “their Billy” they possessed someone who was as good as any other footballer around. No mean feat when you’re talking about Tom Finney and Stanley Matthews for starters.

Nor was this anything to do with local bias or parochial vision. Billy Liddell was the real McCoy. In fact he was THAT good he was actually selected twice for the Great Britain representative side to play, I think, against The Rest of the World. That knowledge alone gave every Red a massive fillip and sufficient justification for holding their heads up high.

For the likes of myself growing up in Liverpool during the fifties - too young to have seen the man at his best - we simply hung onto the tales of our parents and families with a steely determination and open-mouthed wonder. For we too were deprived of any other footballing excellence at that time. We, too, were desperate for ANY morsels of greatness. Even at that young age, deep down we knew our lowly place in the footballing echelon and craved to escape from it.

And so we’d revel in hearing how his immense power allied to simple but matchless skills meant he was virtually unstoppable down either left or right wing. How he was just as unstoppable at centre forward too. How hard he could hit that ball with either foot. How he’d had that fantastic goal disallowed against Manchester City because the ref had blown for full time while it was still in flight. And then THE photo with the encircled referee would come out of the sideboard drawer just to prove it. For the umpteenth time. Above all else just how much of a gentleman and a true sport Billy Liddell ALWAYS was. Whatever the provocation. Whatever the circumstances. Always a peerless ambassador for his club, his adopted city and his country. A man to be revered.

I suppose it was the reverence for him that stood out above everything else. The sheer universal respect that existed for this truly unassuming man. Believe me, both Red and Blue alike had a mutual respect and awe of Billy Liddell that I have only ever encountered for two other people. One was the incredible William Ralph Dean and the other was Bill Shankly himself. I think that says everything about the man.

Billy Liddell, we salute you. You were a true legend. You were my first footballing hero. Arguably you were the best of all because you were ours alone. A true Local Hero. Looking again at your picture above, I am reminded just how much you really DID look like my dear father whom you have now gone to join. I know he will welcome you like a lost friend Billy and if you find that he has been pretending to be you up there these past fifteen years then simply do what we kids used to do. Just humour him and let him sign your autograph book like he used to do for us way back then. Readers of Faith of our Fathers will know what I mean.