bon,c'est pas très fiable comme site mais c'est marrant.
mesdames messieurs lfc va gagner la league cette année.
football365 répand plein de rumeurs de transferts pour agner des sous,mais là ils font un billet d'humeur.
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Velvet Pants And Tipping Liverpool For Glory
Tuesday November 22 2005
I got out of the cab on West 47th and 7th street. The thunderstorms that had been drenching New York for the previous three days had temporarily dried up but low, sodden clouds hung over Manhattan like giant wet duvets lying on the tops of the skyscrapers.
We were flush with cash so we were staying at the Edison Hotel for a couple of days.
We had two gigs in the Gas bar somewhere near Bleeker Street and one spare night before flying back to LA. The spare night we planned to get royally wasted and, to be honest, we were very good at getting royally wasted - indeed it was what we did best and let's face it, we'd had a lot of practice.
It was during this evening of intoxication and debauchery that I met quite the maddest Liverpool supporter who walks this earth. And it was my pleasure to make contact with him again this weekend. He is a visionary of no little merit and he believes Liverpool will win the Premiership this year. Sounds mad I know, but he's got me believing it. But more of that later...
We strode out of the hotel in our best rock 'n' roll finery. Hairy Tony wore a Newcastle United shirt and his ubiquitous leather jacket, which had been subjected to so many bodily fluids from every orifice over the years that it was by then virtually an independent life form. In fact, we were worried that the jacket and his ever-present cowboy boots, which he even slept in, were forming an alliance to take over Tony and make him a slave. That may have been the drugs talking though.
Hunter was sporting a Union Jack bandana in the Miami Steve Van Zandt manner, a long straggling chin-only beard and tight leather pants that made it appear he was storing 5lbs of King Edwards spuds in an elaborate crotch-based potato clamp.
Lenny had a charity shop pin-stripe jacket on along with an old black silk top hat that he fancied made him look like Tom Petty. It's a great look a top hat - everyone looks like they're someone in a top hat.
I had opted for velvet. I would drape myself in velvet from head to foot if it was socially acceptable. This day saw me resplendent in skin-tight wine-coloured velvet pants, an ornate black shirt with multi-coloured dragons and Converse baseball boots - this was before they were a brand that anyone knew or cared about.
Hey, this was the early 90's, it was a good look, trust me. The intention was to look elegantly wasted. The intention was to get elegantly wasted.
As is the way with such nights on the tiles and off the rails, the details are a little hazy now. We definitely went to Caroline's to see some late-night comedy and got the p*** taken out of us by the comics for being loud, English and dressed like a circus act.
Then we went to a bar where someone had told us Bob Dylan was drinking. Which was of course rubbish. If I'd met Bob Dylan I would have remembered, I think. Or maybe I was in the basement mixing up the medicine.
Then someone said there was the best new rock 'n' roll band playing somewhere in the city. They were called the Black Crowes and had just had their first albums released. We knew nothing about them but after seeing them we quickly became Crowes acolytes. They were doing exactly what we wanted to do but the crucial difference was they were really good and we were not. Chris Robinson even wore velvet pants and eyeliner. He copied my whole look.
It's at this point that things went weird, almost certainly due to us being stoned immaculate. A few hours disappeared. I may have just been sitting somewhere rigid staring without blinking. At some point I was intimate with a woman who tasted of liquorice. That's all I can recall.
Somehow we ended up back at the hotel. Along with the four of us were three women who we'd acquired at some point in the night and a man with a Hendrix-style fro, which is never a bad thing but was an unusual hair-do on a white guy from Speke.
Where he'd come from I don't recall but he insisted his job in life was 'The City's Professional Vibemaster'. This seemed an unlikely proper job to me and not one I could see the City of New York employing anyone to do.
However, he provided much welcomed intoxicants and in return he slept on my hotel room floor and copulated with one of the women, which to my altered state of consciousness sounded like someone sticking a sponge finger in and out of a trifle with thick custard on top.
Around 2pm the next day I began to come back to consciousness. The Vibemaster and his trifle woman had gone but he had left a piece of paper on the bed-side table. I still have it. He left a phone number, an address on Staten Island and underneath was a list of predictions he'd made the previous night while he was higher than God.
In a Nostradamus style he predicted the Democrats to win in 1992, the death of Kurt Cobain in 1994 - this was almost a year before Nirvana broke big - scary isn't it. He claimed they were visions he'd had.
He also predicted the decline of his beloved Liverpool FC. Remember in 1990 no one could envisage Liverpool not dominating the 90's as they had the previous decade. Clearly written it says 'No title win until the year 1995' which has then been crossed out and replaced with 2006.
Now before you think he was a John the Baptist style prophet, I should also tell you he also predicted that it would be revealed that Maggie Thatcher was actually a robot - he was obsessed with Thatcher being a robot. So much so that we began to believe him. Think robot when you see old footage of her, it's not that much of a stretch to believe it. He also predicted that Arthur Scargill would become Prime Minister in a Socialist coup in 1995 - proof that drugs offer as much delusion as insight.
All of this melted like mozzarella on the pizza of my life and I had all but forgotten the Vibemaster when out of the blue this weekend, into my inbox plops an e-mail from him. In real life his name is Simon and his career as Vibemaster has long since been superceded by his job as an art teacher.
As many ex-stoners do, he believes he glimpsed the future that day and that his prediction for Liverpool was actually a vision and he's now sure that 2006 will see the Reds once again take the title. Maybe he's still smoking the banana skins.
I pointed out to him the league table and their reliance on the unlikely amalgam of extended gibbering limbs that is Peter Crouch to score goals...but he is sure.
This is how it will happen - you heard it here first.
They win the two games in hand on Chelsea leaving them nine points behind.
Liverpool lose only once more this year.
Chelsea lose twice - to Arsenal and to Liverpool.
Chelsea's over-reliance on African Nations players and out-of-form strikers takes its toll and they draw six more games this season.
Liverpool draw only five games, and win the rest - thus winning the league by a point.
"It will be a slow, remorseless crawl to the top that no one will believe is possible until the very last day of the season. It will be seen as the greatest victory in Liverpool's history," he finishes.
These are weird times we live in. I can't make any logical case at all for Liverpool finishing any higher than third given their start but somehow, what he says feels somehow possible. And they have already set their own precedent for unlikely major success.
No one could imagine them winning the CL this time last year and as few people can imagine them as Premiership champions, but that doesn't mean it can't happen.
It's certainly more likely than me wearing tight velvet pants again.
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