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

[dandydan]

I prefer this warm up :

Those two girls are thinking "maybe I'm a lesbian?"

 

[BoysInBlue]

Gerrard continuing to put the boot into Rodgers from a far:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/sport/0/football/34228916

Now claims Rodgers 'misled him' about him playing vs Utd in March.

 

[toffeejack]

Gerrard continuing to put the boot into Rodgers from a far:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/sport/0/football/34228916

Now claims Rodgers 'misled him' about him playing vs Utd in March.

just seen that, the egotistical child got sent off after 38 seconds! he never learnt from his mistakes no matter how much experience he had - he'd always foam at the mouth when united came to town. he's the very definition if bitter.

 

[tsubaki]

Gerrard continuing to put the boot into Rodgers from a far:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/sport/0/football/34228916

Now claims Rodgers 'misled him' about him playing vs Utd in March.

Thirty-eight seconds in which I had been at the heart of every small cameo of action and ferocious display of rage

.... in those thirty-eight seconds.

 

[Jags..class]

More stuff

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sport/fo...CLUSIVE-rejected-Tottenham-PSG-10m-Qatar.html

He deffo miffed that he didn't get a coaching role. To be fair Gerrard deserves a coaching role at the club as he was a legend for them but we all know the club and their fans are a waste of space. Heard stories that shankley was treated bad by the club. Moyes also wanted to sign him last season

 

[Moggers]

STEVEN GERRARD FOR THE DAILY MAIL


On the morning of the game, I felt like a caged animal. As I warmed up on the afternoon last March, the United fans opened their throats.
They pelted me with abuse — and their favourite song echoed around the away end:
'Steve Gerrard, Gerrard... he slipped on his f****** arse, he gave it to Demba Ba... Steve Gerrard, Gerrard...'

After a while, when they got bored, they swapped it for another chestnut:

'You nearly won the league, you nearly won the league... and now you better believe it, now you better believe it, now you better believe it, you nearly won the league.'

The anger in the caged animal grew and grew. United were swaggering, Anfield was very quiet. It was obvious I would come on at half-time.

We had stood off United in the first half and made very few tackles. It went against everything built into my DNA. Tackling and collisions mattered against Manchester United.

While we waited for the second half to start, I looked around Anfield, my ancient battleground, and did a last few warm-ups, rotating my torso from the hips, tugging at my shorts, impatient for the game to get under way.

The game restarted, I went in hard with a fair, but slamming tackle on Juan Mata. I cleaned out Mata, who went flying, and I won the ball.

I was involved again, immediately, as Ander Herrera came hurtling towards me to shut down space. I was too quick for him. I completed a simple pass as Herrera came flying in with his sliding tackle. His right leg stretched out invitingly on the Anfield turf. I couldn't stop myself. Without even giving myself time to think I brought my left foot stamping down on Herrera. I felt my studs sink into his flesh just above the ankle. It had to have hurt him.


Herrera clutched his ankle and writhed around on the ground. I raised my arm above my head and gestured angrily. I was trying to deflect attention away from me. I knew I was in trouble. But I'm still a footballer and so I pointed at myself, almost in self-defence, as if to say:

'What? Me?'

'Yes, you,' referee Martin Atkinson's walk said. I didn't like the look of his walk. I didn't like the look of his face.

Wayne Rooney was close by. Wayne looked at me. He knew I was gone.

As I left the pitch I asked myself: 'What have you just done? Are you f****** stupid?'

It had taken me just 38 seconds to get myself sent off against Manchester United. Thirty-eight seconds in which I had been at the heart of every small cameo of action and ferocious display of rage. It had been, in the end, 38 seconds defined by anger and a kind of madness.


Before the Premier League game against United at Anfield on March 22, I believed I would start in what would be my final match against them.

Earlier in the season, Brendan Rodgers had sent me a clear-cut message. 'Even though I'm managing your games it's important for you to understand that I'm trying to help you stay fresh. I can't be flogging you every game because I won't get the best out of you. Sometimes, I'll give you a break and you'll come back fresh and you'll do well.'

Brendan then said, just as I was getting up to leave: 'Look, I also want you to know one more thing. If we've got a very important game, a crucial game in the league or a cup final, then it's obvious. You're my No 1 pick. I put you in, and you're my captain. What you've given me since I've walked through this door, made my mind up a long time ago. If we've got a big game, you're in...'

We were out of the Champions League and the title was long gone. But we were closing in on fourth place, and Manchester United at home felt like the biggest game of the season. So I felt confident I would be selected.

I trained really well on the Wednesday and felt sharper and hungrier than anyone in the squad. That night I received a text from the manager: 'You've trained so well the last couple of days, can we have a chat? Can you come to my office in the morning before training?'

I was already in bed but I replied instantly: 'Yeah no problem, thanks.'

I might have sounded casual in my text but I was much more excited in my bed. I read Brendan's text again.

'I'm going to be back in the team here,' I thought. 'He's thinking Man United, at home, massive game. He needs me for this one.'

I lay in the dark for the next hour, thinking about everything.

Brendan was in his office when I arrived at training. He started smiling as soon as I walked in and I stretched out my hand to say good morning. Brendan was still smiling as he leant back in his chair and said, 'How are you feeling?'

'Yeah, I'm fine, good,' I said. 'No problems.'

There was a little pause, then Brendan said: 'Look, I'm desperate to get you back into the XI. But the team has done so well I'm going to go with the same lads that started the other night.'

A sudden lump formed in my throat. I looked at Brendan and, in that mad moment, I had a split- second decision to make. Do I have a go at him?

I went the other way. I went the right way. I decided to stay professional. 'No problem, fine,' I said.

'OK?' Brendan said.

'OK,' I nodded. 'I respect your decision.'

We left it at that. I walked out and got ready for training. My mind was swimming. I couldn't believe it. It felt to me, then, like a classic case of muscle-flexing.

My relationship with Brendan was too good for him to need to make a point to me. He was someone I respected and liked: his training sessions were among the best I had ever experienced while his man-management was excellent, generous and imaginative.

But I wondered if this was his way of showing the press that he was strong enough to make a difficult decision. This seemed a chance for Brendan to show his authority and send out a clear message that this was his team.

I can respect Brendan's decision now, even if I obviously still believe it was the wrong one, because he wanted to show loyalty to everyone who had done well for him.

But it hurt me, especially because of our previous conversations and the fact that his Wednesday night text, which had been full of praise, had misled me. I'm sure he didn't mean to give me the wrong impression but his text confirmed in my mind that I would be selected.

I had been taught to loathe Manchester United. It was drilled into our brains, hardening our hearts and conditioning our souls as Liverpool fans. It was tattooed into the head of every Liverpool fan. We had never liked each other, as clubs or cities, but the animosity had become deeper. Liverpool had been dominant for so long; and then, finally, United took over under Sir Alex Ferguson.

Over the years, especially when I was in the same England team alongside great United players like Paul Scholes, David Beckham, Gary Neville, Rio Ferdinand and Wayne Rooney, my feelings became more layered, but they never disappeared.

I respected Ferguson and Roy Keane and Ryan Giggs; I even respected, grudgingly, what they had achieved as a club. But you never rolled over against United. If they got one over you, you fought back. You went in harder, with just a little more crunch, just to let them know it really was personal.

For more than 26 years, I had always felt compelled to show fire towards them. They were the enemy.Their shirt is the only one I won't allow in my house. I have a big collection of shirts I've swapped with other players from different clubs — but not one from United.

I remember in 2000 after a Danny Murphy goal had seen Liverpool beat them 1-0, United fans hammered on our bus outside Old Trafford. They chanted: 'F*** off, scum, we'll f****** kill you in your Liverpool slum.'

My agent, Struan Marshall, told me that, under Fergie, United had a decent pop at trying to sign me. Gary Neville would knock at my door during England camps. He'd come in for a chat and let me know how much United would love me to play for them. Gary told me Fergie had sent him.

In 2004, Ferguson had called me 'the most influential player in England, bar none' and suggested that 'anyone would love to have Gerrard in their team'.

So I was a little hurt and surprised when 13 years later, Ferguson used his autobiography to insist he was one of the few who never thought I was 'a top, top player'. I wouldn't lose any sleep but I was slightly taken aback after all his praise.

The only point that mattered was that I have real respect for Ferguson, but I wondered how many league titles he thought Scholes or Keane might have won if they had played for Liverpool.

I would have done OK in a United team playing alongside Keane in midfield with David Beckham on the right, Ryan Giggs on the left and Ruud van Nistelrooy up front. I would have managed pretty well in that side.

Shameless isn't he?? If you just read the bits in bold, he's even subliminally plugging his next book 'Fifty Shades of G'...

 

[ste d' indica]

'I felt my studs sink into his flesh just above the ankle' Steven Gerrard on THAT tackle on Ander Herrera and why it was always personal against Manchester United

• Sportsmail is serialising Steven Gerrard's explosive book
• Liverpool legend was sent off last season against Manchester United
• Gerrard was shown red for a foul on Ander Herrera after just 38 seconds
• His short cameo proved to be defined by anger and a kind of madness
• Gerrard reveals how he had been taught to loathe Liverpool's bitter rivals

By STEVEN GERRARD FOR THE DAILY MAIL

On the morning of the game, I felt like a caged animal. As I warmed up on the afternoon last March, the United fans opened their throats.
They pelted me with abuse — and their favourite song echoed around the away end:
'Steve Gerrard, Gerrard... he slipped on his f****** arse, he gave it to Demba Ba... Steve Gerrard, Gerrard...'

After a while, when they got bored, they swapped it for another chestnut:

'You nearly won the league, you nearly won the league... and now you better believe it, now you better believe it, now you better believe it, you nearly won the league.'

The anger in the caged animal grew and grew. United were swaggering, Anfield was very quiet. It was obvious I would come on at half-time.

We had stood off United in the first half and made very few tackles. It went against everything built into my DNA. Tackling and collisions mattered against Manchester United.

While we waited for the second half to start, I looked around Anfield, my ancient battleground, and did a last few warm-ups, rotating my torso from the hips, tugging at my shorts, impatient for the game to get under way.

The game restarted, I went in hard with a fair, but slamming tackle on Juan Mata. I cleaned out Mata, who went flying, and I won the ball.

I was involved again, immediately, as Ander Herrera came hurtling towards me to shut down space. I was too quick for him. I completed a simple pass as Herrera came flying in with his sliding tackle. His right leg stretched out invitingly on the Anfield turf. I couldn't stop myself. Without even giving myself time to think I brought my left foot stamping down on Herrera. I felt my studs sink into his flesh just above the ankle. It had to have hurt him.

Herrera clutched his ankle and writhed around on the ground. I raised my arm above my head and gestured angrily. I was trying to deflect attention away from me. I knew I was in trouble. But I'm still a footballer and so I pointed at myself, almost in self-defence, as if to say:

'What? Me?'

'Yes, you,' referee Martin Atkinson's walk said. I didn't like the look of his walk. I didn't like the look of his face.

Wayne Rooney was close by. Wayne looked at me. He knew I was gone.

As I left the pitch I asked myself: 'What have you just done? Are you f****** stupid?'

It had taken me just 38 seconds to get myself sent off against Manchester United. Thirty-eight seconds in which I had been at the heart of every small cameo of action and ferocious display of rage. It had been, in the end, 38 seconds defined by anger and a kind of madness.

Before the Premier League game against United at Anfield on March 22, I believed I would start in what would be my final match against them.

Earlier in the season, Brendan Rodgers had given me a clear-cut message. 'Even though I'm managing your games it's important for you to understand that I'm trying to help you stay fresh. I can't be flogging you every game because I won't get the best out of you. Sometimes, I'll give you a break and you'll come back fresh and you'll do well.'

Brendan then said, just as I was getting up to leave: 'Look, I also want you to know one more thing. If we've got a very important game, a crucial game in the league or a cup final, then it's obvious. You're my No 1 pick. I put you in, and you're my captain. What you've given me since I've walked through this door, made my mind up a long time ago. If we've got a big game, you're in...'

We were out of the Champions League and the title was long gone. But we were closing in on fourth place, and Manchester United at home felt like the biggest game of the season. So I felt confident I would be selected.

I trained really well on the Wednesday and felt sharper and hungrier than anyone in the squad. That night I received a text from the manager: 'You've trained so well the last couple of days, can we have a chat? Can you come to my office in the morning before training?'

I was already in bed but I replied instantly: 'Yeah no problem, thanks.'

I might have sounded casual in my text but I was much more excited in my bed. I read Brendan's text again.

'I'm going to be back in the team here,' I thought. 'He's thinking Man United, at home, massive game. He needs me for this one.'

I lay in the dark for the next hour, thinking about everything.

Brendan was in his office when I arrived at training. He started smiling as soon as I walked in and I stretched out my hand to say good morning. Brendan was still smiling as he leant back in his chair and said, 'How are you feeling?'

'Yeah, I'm fine, good,' I said. 'No problems.'

There was a little pause, then Brendan said: 'Look, I'm desperate to get you back into the XI. But the team has done so well I'm going to go with the same lads that started the other night.'

A sudden lump formed in my throat. I looked at Brendan and, in that mad moment, I had a split- second decision to make. Do I have a go at him?

I went the other way. I went the right way. I decided to stay professional. 'No problem, fine,' I said.

'OK?' Brendan said.

'OK,' I nodded. 'I respect your decision.'

We left it at that. I walked out and got ready for training. My mind was swimming. I couldn't believe it. It felt to me, then, like a classic case of muscle-flexing.

My relationship with Brendan was too good for him to need to make a point to me. He was someone I respected and liked: his training sessions were among the best I had ever experienced while his man-management was excellent, generous and imaginative.

But I wondered if this was his way of showing the press that he was strong enough to make a difficult decision. This seemed a chance for Brendan to show his authority and send out a clear message that this was his team.

I can respect Brendan's decision now, even if I obviously still believe it was the wrong one, because he wanted to show loyalty to everyone who had done well for him.

But it hurt me, especially because of our previous conversations and the fact that his Wednesday night text, which had been full of praise, had misled me. I'm sure he didn't mean to give me the wrong impression but his text confirmed in my mind that I would be selected.

I had been taught to loathe Manchester United. It was drilled into our brains, hardening our hearts and conditioning our souls as Liverpool fans. It was tattooed into the head of every Liverpool fan. We had never liked each other, as clubs or cities, but the animosity had become deeper. Liverpool had been dominant for so long; and then, finally, United took over under Sir Alex Ferguson.

Over the years, especially when I was in the same England team alongside great United players like Paul Scholes, David Beckham, Gary Neville, Rio Ferdinand and Wayne Rooney, my feelings became more layered, but they never disappeared.

I respected Ferguson and Roy Keane and Ryan Giggs; I even respected, grudgingly, what they had achieved as a club. But you never rolled over against United. If they got one over you, you fought back. You went in harder, with just a little more crunch, just to let them know it really was personal.

For more than 26 years, I had always felt compelled to show fire towards them. They were the enemy.Their shirt is the only one I won't allow in my house. I have a big collection of shirts I've swapped with other players from different clubs — but not one from United.

I remember in 2000 after a Danny Murphy goal had seen Liverpool beat them 1-0, United fans hammered on our bus outside Old Trafford. They chanted: 'F*** off, scum, we'll f****** kill you in your Liverpool slum.'

My agent, Struan Marshall, told me that, under Fergie, United had a decent pop at trying to sign me. Gary Neville would knock at my door during England camps. He'd come in for a chat and let me know how much United would love me to play for them. Gary told me Fergie had sent him.

In 2004, Ferguson had called me 'the most influential player in England, bar none' and suggested that 'anyone would love to have Gerrard in their team'.

So I was a little hurt and surprised when 13 years later, Ferguson used his autobiography to insist he was one of the few who never thought I was 'a top, top player'. I wouldn't lose any sleep but I was slightly taken aback after all his praise.

The only point that mattered was that I have real respect for Ferguson, but I wondered how many league titles he thought Scholes or Keane might have won if they had played for Liverpool.

I would have done OK in a United team playing alongside Keane in midfield with David Beckham on the right, Ryan Giggs on the left and Ruud van Nistelrooy up front. I would have managed pretty well in that side.

 

[Whistlin' Dixie]

It was self-defence......

 

[degsy]

He is a very vein man. So much for "I'm just enjoying the lack of exposure" crap in LA. He is a complete media whore trying to yell "me me me" from over in America. The fact they've replaced him with James Milner must be painful though.

It is funny he is already trying to worm his way back into contention for Liverpool. This interview is perfectly times on the back of a heavy defeat and a trip to Old Trafford. Gerrard does nothing for "his people" he does it all for himself and like the true selfish no mark that he is, he's carefully waited his moment to go public with his alleged missing of the limelight.

A more humble person could have slid away to the quiet life of America. A decent human being, who values things beyond their own ego, who value their family etc. A human being with a bit of dignity. Gerrard is none of those things so finds it impossible and desperately wants to be centre of attention.

To answer some of your questions "stevie" that you ask at the end of the article. What happened after the slip? Well you put in a toothless display and still ended up losing to Chelsea's B team 1-0, largely down to your own inability to deliver on the big stage. You were then central to a team that threw away a 3 goal lead in the last ten minutes at relegation threatened Crystal Palace. As captain and defensive midfielder you neglected your duty to provide your defence protection. In essence, after your slip, you continued to make cock up after cock up to hand the league to your opponents. You then cost England the world cup, and put in the most shameful performance as an England captain that the country has witnessed in the hundred years of international football.

How did you deal with it? Well as I've said above badly. In your following season you then stunk the place out. You champions league campaign was a damp squid with 1 goal in open play for the entire team in 6 games. The best performance came when you were dropped from the team at Real Madrid. You threw a massive tantrum at that and undermined your manager and followed it up with a poor performance and home defeat in the next game.
Your last game against Manchester United you chirlisly ran on and got yourself sent off after 40 seconds for an assault, ending the slight glimmer of hope your side had of gaining champions league football in your absence from the team.

Your final home game in a reds shirt saw you hammered off the park 3-1 by the mighty Crystal palace. Your final game saw a shambolic surrender at Stoke, losing 5-0 at half time in one of he most one sided games of football ever witnessed in Britain. The fact they felt sorry for you and declared prevented a ten or twelve goal hammering.
So overall Stevie, your lack of professionalism meant you dealt with it very badly.

"How you learned to cope with it, how you ended up here". Stevie you were bombed out. Bombed out to a part time league equivalent to our championship. Nobody else wanted you. Arriving their is not some achievement, it shows how far you've fallen. The fact that you are barely mentioned should indicate to you just how desperate your fans were to get rid of you.

This is in the end why you weren't asked to stay as a coach. Your arrogance, ineptitude and inability meant you were a perfect fit to be bombed out never to return. You're only hope is to play on the stupidity of the Kops regulars, and I sense you will be quite adept at that, so I doubt we'd have seen the last of you. I can't wait for you to return as manager, you would take them down, much as Shearer did.

Short version; see below

 

[Whistlin' Dixie]

Bargain for the kopites......

http://www.hotukdeals.com/deals/liverpool-oslo-9-98-return-ryanair-2280783

 

[hullefc]

If Stevie me thinks Rodgers is two-faced he obviously has his head up his backside.

Andy Carroll: Why I lost respect for Brendan Rodgers at ...

"Andy Carroll says he “lost respect” for manager Brendan Rodgers prior to his departure from Liverpool FC .

The big frontman, who returns to Anfield with West Ham today , was off-loaded to Upton Park shortly after Rodgers took over in 2012.

Liverpool's record £35million signing initially joined the Hammers on a season-long loan and the move was made permanent for £15million 12 months later.

“With Brendan Rodgers, there was a lot going on,” Carroll told The Times.

“What he was saying to me and what was actually happening [were different things]. He was telling me one thing to my face, then I’d leave the training ground and he would ring me and tell me a completely different thing.

“He would say: ‘You’re going to play every week, you’re going to play every game up front with [Luis] Suarez’. I’d leave and get home and he would ring me and say: ‘Fulham and West Ham want you and I think it’s best you should go.’

“I had just had a conversation with him ten minutes ago. So I would go back and see him and he would say the opposite again.

“It was the same thing round and round and round. On phone calls, it was: ‘I think you should go.’

“To my face it was: ‘You’ll start every week’. It was mixed messages. He was messing with my head. I lost respect for him, to be honest".

 

[davek]

'I felt my studs sink into his flesh just above the ankle' Steven Gerrard on THAT tackle on Ander Herrera and why it was always personal against Manchester United

• Sportsmail is serialising Steven Gerrard's explosive book
• Liverpool legend was sent off last season against Manchester United
• Gerrard was shown red for a foul on Ander Herrera after just 38 seconds
• His short cameo proved to be defined by anger and a kind of madness
• Gerrard reveals how he had been taught to loathe Liverpool's bitter rivals

By STEVEN GERRARD FOR THE DAILY MAIL

On the morning of the game, I felt like a caged animal. As I warmed up on the afternoon last March, the United fans opened their throats.
They pelted me with abuse — and their favourite song echoed around the away end:
'Steve Gerrard, Gerrard... he slipped on his f****** arse, he gave it to Demba Ba... Steve Gerrard, Gerrard...'

After a while, when they got bored, they swapped it for another chestnut:

'You nearly won the league, you nearly won the league... and now you better believe it, now you better believe it, now you better believe it, you nearly won the league.'

The anger in the caged animal grew and grew. United were swaggering, Anfield was very quiet. It was obvious I would come on at half-time.

We had stood off United in the first half and made very few tackles. It went against everything built into my DNA. Tackling and collisions mattered against Manchester United.

While we waited for the second half to start, I looked around Anfield, my ancient battleground, and did a last few warm-ups, rotating my torso from the hips, tugging at my shorts, impatient for the game to get under way.

The game restarted, I went in hard with a fair, but slamming tackle on Juan Mata. I cleaned out Mata, who went flying, and I won the ball.

I was involved again, immediately, as Ander Herrera came hurtling towards me to shut down space. I was too quick for him. I completed a simple pass as Herrera came flying in with his sliding tackle. His right leg stretched out invitingly on the Anfield turf. I couldn't stop myself. Without even giving myself time to think I brought my left foot stamping down on Herrera. I felt my studs sink into his flesh just above the ankle. It had to have hurt him.

Herrera clutched his ankle and writhed around on the ground. I raised my arm above my head and gestured angrily. I was trying to deflect attention away from me. I knew I was in trouble. But I'm still a footballer and so I pointed at myself, almost in self-defence, as if to say:

'What? Me?'

'Yes, you,' referee Martin Atkinson's walk said. I didn't like the look of his walk. I didn't like the look of his face.

Wayne Rooney was close by. Wayne looked at me. He knew I was gone.

As I left the pitch I asked myself: 'What have you just done? Are you f****** stupid?'

It had taken me just 38 seconds to get myself sent off against Manchester United. Thirty-eight seconds in which I had been at the heart of every small cameo of action and ferocious display of rage. It had been, in the end, 38 seconds defined by anger and a kind of madness.

Before the Premier League game against United at Anfield on March 22, I believed I would start in what would be my final match against them.

Earlier in the season, Brendan Rodgers had given me a clear-cut message. 'Even though I'm managing your games it's important for you to understand that I'm trying to help you stay fresh. I can't be flogging you every game because I won't get the best out of you. Sometimes, I'll give you a break and you'll come back fresh and you'll do well.'

Brendan then said, just as I was getting up to leave: 'Look, I also want you to know one more thing. If we've got a very important game, a crucial game in the league or a cup final, then it's obvious. You're my No 1 pick. I put you in, and you're my captain. What you've given me since I've walked through this door, made my mind up a long time ago. If we've got a big game, you're in...'

We were out of the Champions League and the title was long gone. But we were closing in on fourth place, and Manchester United at home felt like the biggest game of the season. So I felt confident I would be selected.

I trained really well on the Wednesday and felt sharper and hungrier than anyone in the squad. That night I received a text from the manager: 'You've trained so well the last couple of days, can we have a chat? Can you come to my office in the morning before training?'

I was already in bed but I replied instantly: 'Yeah no problem, thanks.'

I might have sounded casual in my text but I was much more excited in my bed. I read Brendan's text again.

'I'm going to be back in the team here,' I thought. 'He's thinking Man United, at home, massive game. He needs me for this one.'

I lay in the dark for the next hour, thinking about everything.

Brendan was in his office when I arrived at training. He started smiling as soon as I walked in and I stretched out my hand to say good morning. Brendan was still smiling as he leant back in his chair and said, 'How are you feeling?'

'Yeah, I'm fine, good,' I said. 'No problems.'

There was a little pause, then Brendan said: 'Look, I'm desperate to get you back into the XI. But the team has done so well I'm going to go with the same lads that started the other night.'

A sudden lump formed in my throat. I looked at Brendan and, in that mad moment, I had a split- second decision to make. Do I have a go at him?

I went the other way. I went the right way. I decided to stay professional. 'No problem, fine,' I said.

'OK?' Brendan said.

'OK,' I nodded. 'I respect your decision.'

We left it at that. I walked out and got ready for training. My mind was swimming. I couldn't believe it. It felt to me, then, like a classic case of muscle-flexing.

My relationship with Brendan was too good for him to need to make a point to me. He was someone I respected and liked: his training sessions were among the best I had ever experienced while his man-management was excellent, generous and imaginative.

But I wondered if this was his way of showing the press that he was strong enough to make a difficult decision. This seemed a chance for Brendan to show his authority and send out a clear message that this was his team.

I can respect Brendan's decision now, even if I obviously still believe it was the wrong one, because he wanted to show loyalty to everyone who had done well for him.

But it hurt me, especially because of our previous conversations and the fact that his Wednesday night text, which had been full of praise, had misled me. I'm sure he didn't mean to give me the wrong impression but his text confirmed in my mind that I would be selected.

I had been taught to loathe Manchester United. It was drilled into our brains, hardening our hearts and conditioning our souls as Liverpool fans. It was tattooed into the head of every Liverpool fan. We had never liked each other, as clubs or cities, but the animosity had become deeper. Liverpool had been dominant for so long; and then, finally, United took over under Sir Alex Ferguson.

Over the years, especially when I was in the same England team alongside great United players like Paul Scholes, David Beckham, Gary Neville, Rio Ferdinand and Wayne Rooney, my feelings became more layered, but they never disappeared.

I respected Ferguson and Roy Keane and Ryan Giggs; I even respected, grudgingly, what they had achieved as a club. But you never rolled over against United. If they got one over you, you fought back. You went in harder, with just a little more crunch, just to let them know it really was personal.

For more than 26 years, I had always felt compelled to show fire towards them. They were the enemy.Their shirt is the only one I won't allow in my house. I have a big collection of shirts I've swapped with other players from different clubs — but not one from United.

I remember in 2000 after a Danny Murphy goal had seen Liverpool beat them 1-0, United fans hammered on our bus outside Old Trafford. They chanted: 'F*** off, scum, we'll f****** kill you in your Liverpool slum.'

My agent, Struan Marshall, told me that, under Fergie, United had a decent pop at trying to sign me. Gary Neville would knock at my door during England camps. He'd come in for a chat and let me know how much United would love me to play for them. Gary told me Fergie had sent him.

In 2004, Ferguson had called me 'the most influential player in England, bar none' and suggested that 'anyone would love to have Gerrard in their team'.

So I was a little hurt and surprised when 13 years later, Ferguson used his autobiography to insist he was one of the few who never thought I was 'a top, top player'. I wouldn't lose any sleep but I was slightly taken aback after all his praise.

The only point that mattered was that I have real respect for Ferguson, but I wondered how many league titles he thought Scholes or Keane might have won if they had played for Liverpool.

I would have done OK in a United team playing alongside Keane in midfield with David Beckham on the right, Ryan Giggs on the left and Ruud van Nistelrooy up front. I would have managed pretty well in that side.

Ha Ha ha.

A three thousand word justification for his selfish headless chicken lunge that ended the Kopites day against United.....he did it for his people.

Keep talking boxhead, every word is making you look like the utter fanny most people knew you were anyway.

 

[RED]

*tugs in my shorts*

muscle flexing

 

[Huyton Layne]

Why do their fans go near our Facebook posts? Just to show their bitterness?

 

[Jacob]

The parallel world of Rawks Drift and its general match thread has been in a state of flux....I just dipped in for a blimp. Utter contempt and hatred for Chelski and Mourinho as always, resulting in these posts......

Well in Everton, they were brilliant today to be honest. But now they can go back to being [Poor language removed], irrelevant little club......
School of Science well and truly back up and running

......
Hard to believe John Stones is English......
When did Everton sign Messi??.....
Hate to say it but that is a truly wonderful footballing goal......

Why are some celebrating?
Everton will be above us as things stand. Never is the sight of their name above ours ever a good thing. However early it might be in the season.

Because Kenwright has been brilliant towards us in regards to the amazing Hillsborough support, Chelsea on the other hand are absolute scum from top to bottom.


This brought me back to reality though.......

I guess that the title is going to be between us and City this season.