Blood Red and Bloodshot
I can’t put two words together for a serious article that’s due, or string a sentence together for a chapter that’s required. Yet … yet I can crank out piece after piece on the Reds. Even with this insanely miserable eighteen months of Rodgers’ reign teetering on its last legs. (Klopp for the Kop?)
And the weird thing is, this obsession I have with the Reds costs me dearly. The one commodity generally accepted as essential to keep the creative juices flowing…
Living on this side of the world means staying up until the wee hours to watch Liverpool live. How else can you write about it if you don’t actually watch it? And watching a recorded game doesn’t count. Not even close.
So, at midnight, or two bells, or four bells, or whenever, I’m totally wired. Blood pumping red despite the red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes. I swear. I can smell the Anfield pitch.
It’s the hour after the final whistle, when I have an hour to put the emotion onto a page that’s the killer. Actually, I lie. That’s not the hard part. It’s trying to go to sleep after that. And trying to get through the rest of the day. And what’s killing me now is my inability to find the same creative spark for the articles that are now pending and those chapters that need to written soon.
Maybe I need to curb my obsession with the Reds and stick to my day job? Psst! Pull the other one, mate.
Yeah, excuse the rant. I’m going to go and smash my head against a wall somewhere.