FRIDAY

Trumping the imminent threat of World War 3 has been the departure of Liverpool manager Jurgen Klopp this morning, leaving a large and loyal fan base devastated by the news.

The rest of us may not be quite so overwhelmed with emotion though it's hard (for those familiar with Herr Klopp and his ways) to deny the huge, towering figure that the Stuggart-born manager has carved out in the world of football and the crater-sized hole he'll leave in his wake.

Personally, I've often thought of him as an overzealous social worker who just happens to have a genius understanding of the world's greatest game which is beneficial for Liverpool but not so good for rival clubs who have often suffered from his brilliant and unique management skills and on-field strategies. No-one who watched Liverpool's 4-0 demolition of the gold standard Barcelona (with Messi) back on the 7th May, 2019 could pretend it was anything less than one of the most perfect displays of club football in the history of the game, along with AC Milan's obliteration of Barcelona in the 1994 Champions League Final.

Sometimes I'm accused of being cold-hearted and indifferent toward Liverpool fans but today I tried a different tack having spotted a die-hard LFC fan and recovering alcoholic in the high street and asked him if he needed a hug.

"Yeah, why not. It's two years to this very day I've been clean."

"Oh. Congratulations. But I meant about Klopp."

"What about Klopp?"

Realising he hadn't heard the news, I grimaced and walked away as if close to a human landmine. I had a worrying suspicion that his two year abstinence from the bottle might come to an abrupt end on the very anniversary he was celebrating. I sincerely hope not. Envisaging a Ray Milland-style bender once he had realised that his saviour Klopp was no longer to be at the helm of the very thing in life that gave him anything approximating faith/religion, I realised the enormity (for some) of what had just happened and the profound impact Klopp's departure would have on his life and many others.

Having never forgiven Liverpool for ruining one of the great Rogers and Hammerstein songs, 'You'll Never Walk Alone', from their musical 'Carousel', I believe I've shown a great deal of magnanimity towards these suffering fans for what I still consider a cultural war crime. There's just something about the way they elongate the word 'alone' that irks me.

I'm petty like that.

Unrelated to Klopp, I later bumped into an opera loving, gay friend of mine in a cafe this afternoon to whom I happened to mention the existence of a film about the Russian composer, Tchaikovsky called, simply, 'Tchaikovsky's Wife' (2022).

Grimacing himself, he said (utterly deadpan) that he had been close to Tchaikovsky in a past life and that it would be difficult to watch.

Sipping my cortado, I recalled he'd told me about numerous other past lives he'd experienced.

"Exactly how many past lives do you think you can remember you've lived?"

"Oh, thousands. Actually, I believe you were once a Roman general whom I met on the battlefield," he said earnestly.

"Well," I replied. 'My name is Maximus."