Anthony McIntyre ✒ It was hardly what I expected to do on our twentieth wedding anniversary but as fate would have it, I ended up at three requiem masses. Don’t recall ever managing that before.

The first and second were for the brothers of two separate colleagues in SVP. The third was for a local Liverpool fan, Oliver Martin. I didn’t know the guy but his daughter had put out a request with the Drogheda Official Liverpool Supporters Club for any fans who might be available to turn out for the YNWA farewell. Her dad was 83 and had savoured the team's 2-0 victory over Villa Real as his last. I felt that if a Red fan was to make the final walk, he should not be left to do it alone. It was an honour rather than an inconvenience to turn out.

On entering the Lourdes Chapel on the far side of Drogheda, a short walk from the town centre in beautiful weather, I took my seat in the rearmost pew. I wore a Liverpool hoodie and snood, the latter in lieu of the requested Covid mask, along with the perennial club jewelry that is permanently fixed to my left earlobe and middle right finger. The ring is purely for Liverbird purposes and not for flipping the bird at rival fans, despite the temptation. The scarf remained in my shoulder bag throughout, having forgotten it was there.

I never say anything during masses that I attend, just observing my own secular vow of silence. I follow protocol apart from kneeling. No point in waving a copy of The God Delusion at the priest each time he reads from the Bible. I listened as the clerical eulogy delved into Oliver's life. He was said never to shout except when Liverpool was playing. It is probably how my children will come to remember me, although Liverpool is just one of the many things I can be found ranting about. Going quietly into the night has never been a trait of mine, even when it makes for a more peaceful sleep. 

When the mass ended, the coffin was draped in a Liverpool flag before our fellow fan was placed in the hearse for the journey that we walked with him. Despite my flagophobia, I found this poignant, realising that I had never attended a bespoke Liverpool funeral, my thoughts drifting to the numerous funerals for the unlawfully killed of Hillsborough. It made me think that it would be the one flag I might have on my own coffin after I cease to be. Not that it would much matter in the alternative settings of a direct cremation or medical science. I am a Liverpool fan who will, paradoxically, walk alone.

In the cemetery after the officiating priest had concluded his end of things, there was a rendering of You’ll Never Walk Alone from Gerry Marsden. For a LFC fan, it is the way to go. In a touching moment Oliver’s daughter pulled on a Mo Salah top for the final farewell, as roses were dropped into his resting place.

As I was leaving the cemetery a woman asked me if I knew Oliver. I explained that I did not, but as a fellow LFC fan felt it was something I wanted to do. She told me what a character he was.

There was a function held in the Dee Hotel after proceedings which I did not attend. I am not family and knew no one there. Best to allow those who knew each other and Oliver to spend time together. That evening as the Liverpool-Spurs game got underway, I raised my glass of tequila, said to Oliver, before thinking that he at least had been spared the misery of watching the title effectively slip from our grasp.

Then it was back to the company of the living and that no small thing of a 20th wedding anniversary. I invited my wife to dinner . . . in front of the TV so that she could listen to me grunt and groan as Liverpool fought it out with Tottenham. As wily old Shankly said, football is not a matter of life and death - it is much more important than that! 

⏩ Follow on Twitter @AnthonyMcIntyre.

Requiem For A Fan

Anthony McIntyre ✒ It was hardly what I expected to do on our twentieth wedding anniversary but as fate would have it, I ended up at three requiem masses. Don’t recall ever managing that before.

The first and second were for the brothers of two separate colleagues in SVP. The third was for a local Liverpool fan, Oliver Martin. I didn’t know the guy but his daughter had put out a request with the Drogheda Official Liverpool Supporters Club for any fans who might be available to turn out for the YNWA farewell. Her dad was 83 and had savoured the team's 2-0 victory over Villa Real as his last. I felt that if a Red fan was to make the final walk, he should not be left to do it alone. It was an honour rather than an inconvenience to turn out.

On entering the Lourdes Chapel on the far side of Drogheda, a short walk from the town centre in beautiful weather, I took my seat in the rearmost pew. I wore a Liverpool hoodie and snood, the latter in lieu of the requested Covid mask, along with the perennial club jewelry that is permanently fixed to my left earlobe and middle right finger. The ring is purely for Liverbird purposes and not for flipping the bird at rival fans, despite the temptation. The scarf remained in my shoulder bag throughout, having forgotten it was there.

I never say anything during masses that I attend, just observing my own secular vow of silence. I follow protocol apart from kneeling. No point in waving a copy of The God Delusion at the priest each time he reads from the Bible. I listened as the clerical eulogy delved into Oliver's life. He was said never to shout except when Liverpool was playing. It is probably how my children will come to remember me, although Liverpool is just one of the many things I can be found ranting about. Going quietly into the night has never been a trait of mine, even when it makes for a more peaceful sleep. 

When the mass ended, the coffin was draped in a Liverpool flag before our fellow fan was placed in the hearse for the journey that we walked with him. Despite my flagophobia, I found this poignant, realising that I had never attended a bespoke Liverpool funeral, my thoughts drifting to the numerous funerals for the unlawfully killed of Hillsborough. It made me think that it would be the one flag I might have on my own coffin after I cease to be. Not that it would much matter in the alternative settings of a direct cremation or medical science. I am a Liverpool fan who will, paradoxically, walk alone.

In the cemetery after the officiating priest had concluded his end of things, there was a rendering of You’ll Never Walk Alone from Gerry Marsden. For a LFC fan, it is the way to go. In a touching moment Oliver’s daughter pulled on a Mo Salah top for the final farewell, as roses were dropped into his resting place.

As I was leaving the cemetery a woman asked me if I knew Oliver. I explained that I did not, but as a fellow LFC fan felt it was something I wanted to do. She told me what a character he was.

There was a function held in the Dee Hotel after proceedings which I did not attend. I am not family and knew no one there. Best to allow those who knew each other and Oliver to spend time together. That evening as the Liverpool-Spurs game got underway, I raised my glass of tequila, said to Oliver, before thinking that he at least had been spared the misery of watching the title effectively slip from our grasp.

Then it was back to the company of the living and that no small thing of a 20th wedding anniversary. I invited my wife to dinner . . . in front of the TV so that she could listen to me grunt and groan as Liverpool fought it out with Tottenham. As wily old Shankly said, football is not a matter of life and death - it is much more important than that! 

⏩ Follow on Twitter @AnthonyMcIntyre.

4 comments:

  1. I invited my wife to dinner . . . in front of the TV so that she could listen to me grunt and groan..... Mr Romance....

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