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ECHO Comment: "Fears of Witch-hunt Against Liverpool FC" part 2

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...help me out. I'm looking for "Real Madrid".

Can anyone spot it? :coffee:

Thanks in advance...
 

rylojr said:
As rational Evertonians, it is our duty to ram the review section of Amazon with pithy piss-taking of the most savage degree.

I'm gonna be checking it regularly - Don't fail us.
Click to expand...

I tried, but drunken storytelling seems to be found out rather easily over there.

Thanks for submitting a customer review on Amazon. Your review could not be posted to the website in its current form. While we appreciate your time and comments, reviews must adhere to the following guidelines:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/review-guidelines

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from Arnold Jackson on 24 October 2018

My Man Rafael

What can I say... I wept and then I wept before weeping some more, Then I laughed, oh how I laughed, I laughed like I'd never wept, but then I wept again. I wept until My mam came into my bedroom and told me to grow up, but I didn't care. I turned my Hi-Fi to full volume and blasted out my anthem.... nay "Our Hymn" I should say. I wrapped our glorious scarfs around my neck and wrists and sung our tune out loud as I re-read this riveting tale. My mam called me a sodding fool as she went round to my Aunty Pats for some peace, but I didn't care!
This book filled me with so much joy that I flung open my bedroom window and holding another scarf above my head I belted out those words that send shivers down everybody in der werlds spine. I sung again and again and again until Mr Drummond next door called me a rude name and threatened to phone the police yet again. But i didn't care, I told him that when the officers found his wife's panties in my room, all 26 pairs which had accidentally blown into my wardrobe during strong winds, you just don't get us,but Rafael did, and so does our iconic German overlord.
Brenda got us, and then he didn't. But this book gets us, so in some ways welcome home to the author who has brought a colorful cascade of real characters alive on these pages. People you stand next to everyday on the banks of the Kop, Drug dealers, burglars, Thieves, Gangland Enforcers, Biffo, Stodge, Poochie and the Gooch, everyday "Real" fans, salt of the earth guys that just get us.
Bunking in around Europe, inventing fashion and singing and flags...... so what if we take tickets of our own and give them a friendly slap or two in the process, it's what we do, its us!
People don't mind, its about passion, and we get that, its an LFC rite of passage almost! As every other club, nay every fan in werld footie looks to our heritage and future and wants to be us, this book will only break their hearts in two as they realise how beloved we really are. Jurgen is the most admired man in the universe, from his sexy touchline antics right down to his baccy stained fingers, he is our god, our saviour, our muse....
But i digress, this book is about our past whilst still always pointing to our future, our glorious future. As I sink back onto the bed with tear filled eyes I glance into my wardrobe and weep some more, for there in all its glory is my Cardinal Robes and Mitre. Because I cry for Rafael most of all, our Glorious Spanish Matador felled by the evil American Imperialists. I have touched his eminent hand on many occasions, albeit by proxy, as a curious case of strong winds blew some pairs of Madame Rafael's panties through my open window and into my wardrobe. Rafael just got us, and still does to this day, I weep rivers of tears for you my Spanish Prince.
Yet still my mam doesn't get you though, last week as she rifled through my wardrobe looking for her panties that had blown in through an open window and shook her head at my ecclesiastical garb hanging in all its might, hanging there in memory of my short bearded Adonis from another land.
As I signed on today at Walton Lane police station, I gazed wistfully over the washing lines brimming with panties dancing in the wind on this particular blustery day. I gazed wistfully beyond them and over Anfield Cemetery right up to my spiritual home, my place in the sun if you will.
My soul floats majestically up to my place on the Kop where the ghosts of our past call me unto the pitch, Shanks beckons me over and I'm home, home at last, my soul is set free. This is my "Red" Remembered Hills -
That is the land of lost content
I see it shining plain
Those happy highways where I went
Where Klopp will Take us again.

When I finally make my pilgrimage to our Grand Cathedral, the great Anfield for my first game, I know as I take my place in the Stand with my brothers I shall be welcomed as a returning conqueror, for although I have not had the good fortune to ever attend a game in my short 47 years in this glorious existence as a Liverpool fan true and true, my soul goes every week and kicks every ball with the deepest of passion.
If my soul goes then I am surely there with it. I explained this to my mammy in the back room of the 12th man pub as she brought over my half a lager top and prawn cocktail crisps on that glorious night in 2005.
"I'm not here" I proclaimed, "I'm there, there with my brothers at the game sharing there pain and exaltation"
She just shook her head and mumbled something about "Richard Head" again! I wonder if he's a good of a Red as me as she keeps mentioning his name more and more these days. But my train of thought was broken and a solitary tear perused my cheek as I was sure I glimpsed Aldo's ghostly wraith pass by my table and give my shinpads a little tap, an portent omen for the upcoming game perhaps. I turned away for a brief second and looked out the window, a raven stared in on this windy evening and the Landlady's panties were dancing upon the washing line as that fateful night unfolded. I knew, I just knew it was our time xxx
 
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