As if I wouldn't write about this ...

6^th place Liverpool FC versus top of the table Manchester United, at home. Two days after King Kenny’s birthday and 8 league matches into his second reign at Anfield, this match would prove to be the best measure of Dalglish’s faculties as Liverpool manager. Full squad, sell-out crowd, no excuses.

From kick-off, Liverpool looked the livelier team. With the meagre midfield duo of the dreary Michael Carrick and the aged Paul Scholes to compete with, Liverpool’s partnership of Steven Gerrard and Lucas proved too much for United to wrestle with in the midfield, affording Liverpool ample possession and space going forward. Though I take no greater pleasure in haranguing this player every time I write about Liverpool; astonishingly, much accreditation goes to Lucas. Throughout the full 90 minutes, Lucas was poised and composed, taking command of all goings on in the middle of the park. His growing tendency to play smart, simple football seems to mesh well with Dalglish’s new brand of passing football, while the previously injured Gerrard looked fitter than he did at West Ham and proved effective in his new holding midfield role, allowing Raul Miereles to make runs forward.

It was not long after a handful of decent chances and possession in United’s final third where Liverpool broke the deadlock. Coming from a deceitful bit of dribbling by Liverpool’s gifted Uruguayan, Suarez split Rafael and Chris Smalling with a cunning turn on the ball, effortlessly dummied the wretched Carrick and then again on a sluggish Wes Brown before sliding the ball through the legs of Van der sar, across the face of goal to give Dirk Kuyt the easy tap in.

For the entire match, United did not have an answer for Suarez. The forward, in just his second start in the Premier League, looked a league veteran as he continually caused problems for United’s back four, much weakened without the presence of Vidic and Ferdinand. Furthermore, the lively Miereles added another thorn in United’s side. Liverpool's Portuguese all-purpose midfielder repeatedly made intelligent runs forward to find himself in space, a role he is settling into studiously. Though Miereles’ crossing and shooting ability may be slightly inferior (but not by much) to that of Steven Gerrard, his clever runs forward into space add another dimension to Liverpool’s attacking force.

The second goal of the match came from one such run, but this time from (you guessed it) Suarez. Deviously alluding United’s back four, Suarez took possession on the bottom right corner of the box after chasing down a deflected ball from Maxi. Suarez crossed the ball into the box in the direction of Miereles. Tracking back diligently on defence. United’s Nani won the header, but dubiously sent it backward in the direction of the United goal where the hungry Kuyt gobbled up his chance, heading it passed the outstretched Van der sar into the ol’ onion bag.

A late Carragher challenge on Rafael, a late Rafael challenge on Lucas, four yellow cards and some pushing and shoving brought an end to the first half. Liverpool 2-0 Man United. Kuyt was the goal scorer of the afternoon with the easiest double one would ever see.

The second half brought more Liverpool control and domination. The performances that underscored Liverpool’s two goal lead (on both sides) were duplicated in the second half. Liverpool possessed, United looked like Wigan reserves. There was no change in methodology or workrate from United in the second half. No fire, no gusto. In my mind, they did not look like a team that should be sitting in 1^st place. United were dangerously close to becoming outclassed.

Liverpool’s third goal came, once again, at the feet of Kuyt, and, once again, was an easy tap in and, once again, spawned from the quality play of Suarez. Taking a free kick five yards outside the United box, Suarez blasted the ball through the wall, aimed insistently on the bottom right hand corner. Van der sar dove to his bottom left, made the save, but only to see the ball squirm away from him out in front of goal, where the ever prowling Dutchman swiftly smashed it home, thus completing the most simple hat-trick the game of football will ever know.

Since his singing five years ago, Kuyt has become a mainstay in the Liverpool lineup since his purchase in 2006, and his treble against United caps his first ever for the club and a much cherished sight by Liverpool supporters. Capable of playing as a forward or as a winger, Kuyt has become known at Anfield for his incredible work rate and effort, rather than world class skill and finesse, but (as demonstrated against United) is always willing to chase after balls and run to get himself in the right place. For this, Kuyt has started most games that he has been fit to play and has even captained the club a couple times. It seems oddly symbolic that on this match against Man-U Kuyt was gifted with a hat-trick, for this match may well have signalled the end of the Dutchman’s seemingly permanent place in Liverpool’s first XI.

With Liverpool’s £22.8 million signing Suarez putting on an elite display of class, and with Liverpool’s £35 million signing Andy Carroll making his Liverpool debut as a substitute, it looks certain that the club has its mind made up on its top choice strike partnership. And more, with the NESV’s spending tendencies; it would be likely to see a big-money move this summer for a winger (Ashley Young, Juan Mata among the names linked). Kuyt’s scrappy, hardworking way of play looks likely to be surplus requirements for Liverpool in the near future. Perhaps Kuyt’s hat-trick was a going away present before he is rendered an antiquated fixture at Liverpool.

As chants of “Happy Birthday” were heard throughout the stadium by the King, beaming on the sidelines like a 5 year-old, Liverpool’s victory was locked up, despite a 92^nd minute consolatory goal by Javier Hernandez. Liverpool were magnanimous and thoroughly outclassed the league leaders.

As Manchester United currently sit top and take steps toward a record 19^th Premier League title, much fuss is made over the potential slip from the top that Liverpool may take, becoming, (for the first time in decades) the second most successful club in England. As I am accustomed to doing so when I write about football on this blog, here is, yet again, another boisterous, outlandish, yet discerning prediction: this season, Manchester United will not win the Premier League and will not being taking they’re Premier League title count to 19. And furthermore, I am backing Liverpool FC to win a 19^th title before Manchester United. Whether that means a title next season or not is up for interpretation, but I’m sticking with it. As always, you heard it here first ... LW

Fabric, dubstep, drum & bass ...

I wish there were pictures. I did remember to bring my camera, but each time I remembered to snap it, (6 times), an invariably shit photo resulted.

The night started in Maidenhead, 35 miles west of central London. There, Alex, I and 29 other mates boarded 2 mini-buses and shot down the M5 into the city. Along this ride, I felt a strong feeling of inseparable camaraderie with this British group of lads. Though previously unknown and introduced to moments earlier, this ride into London yielded no cultural or national barriers, just lads ready for a wild fucking night!

The buses pull off the street and parks in front of Fabric, London’s (meaning, probably England’s) biggest and best Dubstep/Drum & Bass club. This is not surprising, for both genres of music originated in London. Dubstep, a mix of Jamaican “Dub” music and 2-Step Garage that came to rise with London’s heavy Afro-Caribbean populace. Both Dubstep and Drum & Bass were genres previously unknown to my musical palate in the states, but ones that have grown strongly on me over this year.

We stood in queue for a bit, but not too long, considering it was nearing midnight, and that tonight was the last Friday of the month, meaning it was Fabric Live. The night’s line-up consisted of DJ Hype, Pascal, Hazard and many more. Alex in particular was buzzing about the last DJ of the night, Andy C, the “king/originator/best/whateverthefuck” of Drum & Bass music.

Filing passed security, we rolled into the Fabric, psyched with anticipation for this sick club and ready for some amazing music. First up: Plastician, one of the early originators and best of the dubstep djs, Plastician kicked off the night with an incredible set. Plastician shredded the club for 45 minutes straight, bouncing the club off its feet with each anarchic drop after the next. The loud, deafening wobble bass roared from the speakers and smashed through the throng of dancers throughout the club. My body wouldn’t stop moving. I was compelled to dance, and never stop. My body rose and twisted to the kick of the drums, to the rush of the drop. My body insisted on it. It is the nights like that remind of the accepted truth; that, at any given time, music can be as good or better than sex.

One after one, with each DJ that came on, amazing music was played, and I danced and danced, for hours and hours. I may not be much of a dancer, but my body would have no other way. I was forced to dance. The music insisted on it. (Sorry for the 2004 douchebag reference, but think Dane Cook: “No, no, fuck chicks tonight dude, I just need to Dance!”) After hours upon hours of dancing and nonstop motion, it was 3am, a cigerrette, a smoke break and a refuel was in order.

Outside in Fabric’s smoking area, which is actually a grassy area below the London street level, I mixed in with both the lads as well as other Fabric goers. If I am just being honest, everyone was really nice, really chilled out and genuinely glad that people were having a good time. If you have been clubbing in Norwich on Prince of Wales Rd., then you will know what an anomaly this is. In fact, talking to another person at all is a phenomenon. It may sound weird, but you can really tell the difference between clubs that exist with the purpose of playing great music and the ones that merely act as a intermediary between English people and drunk sex. Having experienced an abundance of the latter in Norwich, I was thrilled to be at a legitimate, incredible club like Fabric.

It seemed as if a lot of people were using this cushy 3am slot as a smoke/chill-out break, because the sesh was well-extended passed the cheeky cigarette. It was great talking to other people at the club. I met and talked to a couple of Australians (all these Australians I’m meeting, I need to go there). After sharing a spliff and talking awhile, he said, “You’ve really changed my opinion on Americans,” a quote that I cherish. Being American must have been a popular theme tonight, for, in addition the lads and the Australians, a group of English girls I chatted to were also impressed by my American-ness, but in a different way: “Oh my god! Is that really your accent?!”

Refueled, replenished and adequately revived, I rolled back into the club for another rushing of music. I seriously do not know where the time went, nor can I remember another two hours of my life that went quicker. I get my grime face on, chew a piece of gum and next thing I know it is 5:30 am and the last set of the night, Andy C.

It was important for me to see Andy C, but more so to see him with Alex. Not only was Andy C Alex’s favourite DJ, idol and inspiration as a Drum & Bass DJ, but it was Alex’s birthday, hence why all these 32 lads were here, well ... that and it was a completely awesome time, but for Alex as well. Andy C killed his set, and capped the night with a dazzling set of DJing. I saw Alex watching the stage in ecstasy as his idol would build-up two songs simultaneously, then switch quickly to a third deck and song, play it for a bit, and then drop all three at once. “Damn! What?! Holy fucking Hell!” I have still not exactly come to grips with the sad truth that, whatever it is, I will not be able to celebrate Alex’s birthday with him next year.

Andy C leaves the stage and the club begins to close down, at the wee time of 6:45 am. It is light outside. We pile into the mini-bus, simultaneously feeling musically satiated, physically exhausted, but somehow, if the club was not closing, completely fucking ready to keep dancing. The buses pull away from the club, leaving Farringdon. Headed west across London, we cross the Thames, where it is indisputably another London morning. Workers are bustling on the ships, the London Eye is turning.

The buses drive the 35 miles out of town and drop us off at Maidenhead, conveniently in front of a cafe. The lads pile in, the ever important cups of tea are served and worshipped with English sancticity. Then the full English.

Though less than an hour ago, I was inside Fabric and the night was still very much young, now I sip my tea and my sore jaw chews my toast gingerly. It has been an hour, but it is now a new day. It is a surreal feeling that I cannot quite put into words, nor thoughts. Of the many tolls my body has taken, the night has now robbed me temporarily of my critical mind and I am just left to feel, without further analysis.

My ever decreasing stamina manages to carry me the distance to Alex’s house and I crash on his sofa-bed. Its fabric feels awesome ... LW

The crosswalk ...

Thursday 16, February, 2011. Norwich, England.

No class and all afternoon at my leisure, having taken to jogging abroad, I thought, “Right, how about a run? Yes ... a cheeky jog.” I change into some shorts, slip on my Nike’s, grab my iPod and head out the door, looking for a brisk jog to satiate my exercise palate. I got outside and jogged along the sidewalks, winding my way out of my apartment complex, crossed Wilberforce road, turned the corner and arrived just yards from the crosswalk on Earlham Road when I came across a pack of three first school boys.

I trot passed the three children, when I hear a muffled shout mixed in with “Oh Yoko” coming through my headphones: “Enjoy your run!” (or some smartass shit like that). I stopped instantly. Not because I was upset, or was going to confront whichever one of the young punks shouted at me as I passed them, but rather I stopped abruptly because I had reached the crosswalk at Earlham Road and needed to wait for the light change before I could cross it. I turned my head to the right and took off my earbuds to see if indeed it was true that one of these boys were talking to me.

At this reaction, the guilty boy’s face (I could easily tell which one it was) filled quickly with a look of fear and he instantly scurried along the sidewalk of Earlham Road away from my direction (did I mention that I'm a stud?). Figuring that this was the end to a humorous misunderstanding, I smiled and turned my head back towards the other side of Earlham Road and put the buds back in my ears. I laughed, thinking to myself, “Funny little story. I bet he thought I was coming after him.”

But this story does not stop there. After my abrupt stop at the crosswalk which caused the boy’s cowardly flee, the shouting boy has lost a tremendous amount of hardness within his posse. Once hailed for his toughness when he shouted at me earlier, the boy’s coolness factor plummeted greatly when he ran away. In an effort to save face in the presence of his mates, the boy then resorted to more shouting and taunting in my direction, getting angrier and more aggressive, and threatening to fight me.

All of this information I pieced together from looking across the other side of the road. As I had been standing, waiting for the light to change for about thirty seconds (really an uncomfortable amount of time when you are oblivious to a ten year old boy shouting insults at you from ten yards away), there were now four other people standing at the other side. One girl in particular, I noticed, glanced at me and then to my right, and back and forth, her face containing a mixed look of bemusement and nervousness.

For the second time, I turn my head to my right and take the buds out of my ears. There I see the boy, once again shouting at me, but this time he was filled with rage rather than mischief. Screaming at me, all I could hear after I removed my buds was “I’ll fucking do it! Do you want me to?!” I was grateful I did not hear anything else. The boy had gotten so angry at my thirty seconds of ignoring/not being aware of his taunting that he was, according to him, ready to kick my ass.

What had I done to this poor boy? Why had I gotten him so angry? In a mixed feeling of confusion and guilt, the light changed, I crossed Earlham Road and carried on with my run, leaving this angry boy behind. Should I not have ignored him? Was I not giving him any respect?

But hold on ...

I’m going to call this kid out on his bullshit. There is no way this kid actually wanted to fight me, my size and age notwithstanding. I had done nothing to him, but inadvertently make him look cowardly in front of his friends. The boy knew I could not hear whatever it was that he was saying, and used it as an aide for saving face. The boy is an opportunistic little git that capitalized on a situation where I had no knowledge of his audacious mockery, with the goal of looking hard in front of his friends ... talking shit to someone wearing headphones, real fucking cool.

Looking back at the event, I am not angry at the youth, for it was not too traumatizing an event. Rather, what I have really taken from the ordeal is the extremely awkward feeling to be standing at a crosswalk and finding out that there is a 10 year-old shouting obscenities and threatening to fight you. If I could go back and say something to the youth, it would most definitely be a childish comeback, hopefully more immature than the original shout itself. Maybe I turn to the child and say, “Santa isn’t real” and then cross the street and carry on with my jog.

But, alas, I did no such thing ... damned maturity ... LW

Days of York ...

The city of York is located approximately 150 miles north east of Norwich. An alarm set for 5:00, a four hour train ride, and I’m there. Sleepy, I slog along the river and check in at my hostel. My room is not yet available, so the inevitable nap that will be taken is delayed. Instead, I grab a quick tea and a scone and stroll into the city centre for a walking tour of York.

The two hour walk throughout York soon perked my interests and woke me up a bit as I traversed the city streets, steeped in history. York’s ties to both the Romans as well as Vikings colour the city in an odd shade of historical controllers. Being a northern city, all street names were in “gate” form (Bishopsgate, Bakergate, Candlestickmakergate), but also exhibited a healthy number of the Scandinavian Viking influenced road names. As a stroll on the diligently preserved city wall brought the tour to a close, the next stop was York Minster.

York Minster, or “the single largest gothic building (of any kind) west of the Alps,” offered a stunning view of the city from the top of the tower.

As the day drew to a close, and hostel beds were made available, a cheeky nap was in order. A short walk back to the hostel and 40 minutes of sleep, a superb Indian and I feel like a new man. It is time to hit the pubs.

The first: The Red Lion. A typical northern pub. Pool room, ales on tap. I was accompanied by my fellow Dickinson program mate, Mikey. (Who I mention and picture at his repeated insistence as well as narrative functionality). I get the first round, “Two pints of Wainwright, please” I ask the bar staff. This particular ale, a dark, lively ale, is named after Alfred Wainwright, the creator of the 200 mile coast-to-coast hike of England. Only sold in northern cities, Wainwright (the ale) was a beer that I remembered drinking quite frequently two summers ago while hiking in Yorkshire on Wainwright's trail. Its unique blend of hops and barley take me back to 20 mile days of hiking, followed by a quick shower and a lengthy pub session. Two refreshing ales drowned in nostalgia, Mikey and I push on the next pub.

The next one was Evil Eye, a blatant, unapologetic hipster bar. Norwich readers: imagine ‘Knowhere’ but more posh, with even more expensive drinks and a longer wait to get in. With this in mind, Mikey and I take advantage of England’s lenient open container laws and polish off bottles of Budweiser Budvar, a delicious dark Czech lager. Inside the Evil Eye, the drinks, two White Russians, were served for the bargain price of £5.00 a piece. Chatting to locals at the bar, Mikey experienced for the first time a noticeably thick northern accent. He later remarked, “What was she even saying? I couldn't understand her, I was just nodding the whole time." "Yeah, a Northern accent that thick can be a bit confusing at times" I laugh.

At the third pub, the night shifts in momentum a little bit. The Gull and the Swan, another standard pub, mutually agreed by Mikey and I after enduring the stiff prices at Evil Eye. Match of the day comes on the tele. A foreboding look comes on Mikey’s face, as he knows full well what lies ahead. It starts. I talk his head off about football, the Premier League, and each of the matches of that day. Liverpool’s highlights come on. More football conversation, Mikey’s head sinks lower. Then, from across the bar, a local football fan and I exchange banter, and instantly are locked in conversation. Mikey’s fate is sealed. For the remainder of our time in the Gull and the Swan (until it closed), nothing besides football was discussed. It was a two-way conversation between me and the local lad (I don’t hold being a Tottenham supporter against him), even his girlfriend was becoming upset with all the nonstop football talk. I apologize to Mikey on the walk back to the hostel.

Next morning, a long schlep to the Jorvik Center and a forty-five minute tour of York during Viking times and I am officially wiped, hungover and looking at train times with Mikey in a Pret A Manger. Mikey and I skip the York’s castle museum (a museum describing the York Castle, which has not been in existence for centuries). Two trains and I am back at Norwich, tired and hungry. I shower, shave and eat. A good trip to York, but I feel damn good to be home ... LW

We built this city ...

This past weekend, yours truly got a visit from a friend. Ellen had been studying abroad in Ireland since early January. With her recent travels bringing her to England, London specifically, Ellen then made the additional train ride to Norwich. It had been six months and 3500 miles since I had last seen her.

It was an odd, unusual, but eagerly welcomed feeling. In the many times that I had been introduced to new people in England, given tours, been explained various customs in Norwich, it was a first to be on the other end as I gave Ellen a city tour of my second home.

I am my own harshest critic, but I felt my tour of Norwich was pretty damn good. Consisting of a mix of pertinent historical details about famous sites like the Norwich Castle, Cathedral and riverwalk, as well as including “Shit, we all went to that club last Thursday night and got hammered ...” the tour had many points of interest with corresponding stories to tell.

Afterwards, Ellen and I met up with some friends at the Adam and Eve, Norwich’s oldest existing pub and, as it bills itself, “probably the oldest pub in England” (Love the use of “probably” here). With the Adam and Eve being an historical pub, with great food and not one to get shitfaced at, there was only historical information to tell.

The Adam and Eve was built during the construction of the Norwich Cathedral, one of the first cathedrals built in England, completed in the early 12^th century. Located very close to the Norwich Cathedral, the pub was perhaps one of the leading facilitators of the Cathedral’s construction. This is so, because the workers of the cathedral were not paid in cash; rather, they were paid in beer, distributed after the day’s work, every night at the Adam and Eve.

Sitting in a comfy booth with a group of friends, sipping a black pint of Old Peculiar, I drew from the pub an enhanced sense of Norwich’s history. It is located in the city's pubs. If I were to study, really look closely into to Norwich’s history, the Cathedral for example, where would I start? By visiting the cathedral? Reading a book? Maybe I am simply an experiential learner, but sitting in the Adam and Eve, drinking beer, looking around and thinking back; I can envision the sweaty labourers of 900 years ago, trudging into the pub for a beer after a long day's work.

This was how the Cathedral was built after all. Not by generous donations from noblemen, nor government sanction; but, truly, the cathedral was built on strong men who were willing to work hard all day in order to go on the lash at night. Norwich’s tourist tagline: “A church for every week of the year, and a pub for every day,” seems to be very fitting now that we have solved this puzzle piece of Norwich’s history. There are so many pubs, because they were needed by workers building the churches. Thus, the history/mystery of Norwich is solved, and now it is undoubtedly clear how the city came to be as it is. A city built on beer. “History lesson over kids,” drop the mic, leave the classroom.

Perhaps Norwich should change its tagline and take a page out of Starship’s playbook, or maybe it is good as it is. Either way, Norwich proved to be lovely time for Ellen and myself. Although, I find it odd that this introspection of mine came from presenting the city to an outsider, rather than by my own local observations. Hmmm ... LW

The cheeky nap ...

The English love words; which is good, because they are damn good at using them. Whether the topic of conversation is the weather or football, the English are renowned for their way with words. This can also been seen in English literature. Dicken’s great verbosity is quintessentially English: “It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.” However, in particular I have noticed this gift used for excellent descriptions of the subtlest details, an innate ability of the English to describe the smallest of things fully, efficiently and beautifully. An example:

Yesterday my flatmate Alex and I were in the corridor of our flat passing the rugby ball around after returning from watching our mate Stephen play for the university team. After a good, solid session of spin and pop passes back and forth, Alex looks a bit winded, drowsy: “I think I’ll have a nap” he says. “Sounds good” I reply. But wait, Alex’s face in still locked in deep thought. Alex is very much still debating the pros and cons of whether or not taking a nap is indeed a fortuitous decision. When he said “I think I’ll have a nap” it meant he estimated that he would have a nap after thorough consultation. And after due diligence, it is decided. He states, nodding: “Yes ... I’ll have a cheeky nap.”

Alex's (extremely English) statement is brilliant for several reasons:

First off, Alex starts with a moral dilemma. In the initial statement of “I think I’ll have a nap,” Alex’s usage of “think” demonstrates that it is not fully decided whether mentioned nap will or will not occur. Furthermore, Alex’s pause in speech indicates a pause for thought, a moment for weighing values. Perhaps Alex is not sure he wants to take the nap. Suppose there is some reason that Alex should not take the nap. All these factors must be and are considered, with the resulting verdict in the affirmative; Alex will take the nap. However, the mere affirmation of “Yes” is insufficient. It aptly relates the final outcome, but does not account for Alex’s dilemma and the moral ambiguity attached to said nap. In many ways, Alex’s internal struggle of conflict and anguish over to nap, or not to nap overshadows the eventual conclusion and obvious reality of whether or not he naps. The theatricality surrounding the nap is lost with stark, unadorned confirmation. The listener demands/needs more information.

Second, the length of the nap mentioned is left ambiguous. Alex’s opening statement consisted of no indication of proposed nap’s duration. However, it could be argued, and most would agree, that the hotly debated nap is likely to be of relatively quick character. It is unlikely that Alex would be unsure of, debate about, a nap that is three hours in length. Most probable, Alex is unsure of whether or not he will take a nap that is 10-25 minutes. A short, quick nap. But those two words will not do. “Short” places too much emphasis on the length of the nap. The main goal of the nap is not to sleep for a specific amount of time, but rather to receive a set amount of rest. Additionally, describing the nap as “short,” suggests an unsatisfactory nap, a nap would have been longer under different circumstances. And “quick” proves equally unsatisfactory in that it gives the listener the impression that the nap is rushed. A household chore such as making the bed can be done “quickly,” but how can one sleep quickly? If I were to have a “quick” nap, it sounds like I would never fall asleep.

The Oxford English Dictionary defines “cheeky” as: “Characterized by ‘cheek’; insolent or audacious; coolly impudent or presuming.” After my own analysis, I find Alex’s diction to be excellent description of subtle detail and a quintessential example of the gift that the English have in these situations. The moral ambiguity surrounding the question of to nap is captured fully by “cheeky.” Cheeky implies a cloud of sly naughtiness or mild forbiddance within the nap. There is something innocently seductive yet frowned upon the prospect of a nap to Alex. Alex could easily go through with the nap with a clear conscience, but does that necessarily mean he should nap? Could Alex be saved from remonstration in the event of not napping? Alex must answer all of these questions before making the bold, final decision regarding the nap is reached.

Second, perhaps a result of popular connotation as opposed to etymology, the term “cheeky” seems to encapsulate the length of time of Alex’s planned nap. Four hours is not a “cheeky” nap. And, if cheeky describes the nap as “impudent,” then it does not prove to be of great impudence. Rather, Alex’s nap is a mere faux pas, a slight breach in form. If for some bizarre hypothetical reason I would take issue with Alex’ nap on account of it being “insolent,” the amount of “insolence” felt by such a “cheeky” nap would not likely rouse much disdain or affray in my emotions. I would most likely not confront him, maybe if the nap really offended me; but, most likely I would say “cheeky little git” at most.

I heard Alex’s impeccable diction as our rugby tossing session broke and as I sat in my room, I started laughing. “Cheeky nap” I said to myself, chuckling. Instantly, I related with the ambiguously short nap, and indeed the quandary of whether or not such a cheeky nap was worth taking. “Well played, Hatchin’” I thought.

After Alex's brilliant choice of adjective and my thorough/excessive/obsessive analysis, I would guess that it may not surprise the reader to learn that Alex did not in fact take that nap, but was thwarted by the summoning for tea at the last minute. The final piece of the puzzle locks in place, and our drama is complete. Alex is our protagonist and is unsure of many things napping. We have our conflict. Alex believes, “thinks” that he wants to nap. Alex is James Dean, a rebel without a cause. Equipped with a leather jacket and a motorcycle, Alex is a man who says what is on his mind and naps the way he fucking likes to.

But our rising action is drawn from Alex’s internal struggle: Alex is torn between good and evil, heaven and hell, “to nap or not to nap, that is the question.” Eventually, our hero make his decision, he will take this most “cheeky” of naps. Alex’s fate and the fate of our play are sealed, and a climax reached. As Alex's fortunes twist a final time by the mysterious way the world works and he does not nap, he becomes our tragic hero. Alex made the ultimate decision, gave the ultimate sacrifice, but for nothing. Fade to black, roll credits.

As I think about it more, the idea of a “cheeky nap" seems appealing. To me, a “cheeky nap" seems like a lovely nap. A nap of maybe 18 minutes in length where I dream about building a racecar or I have a date with a celebrity. Also, “The Cheeky Nap” seems like a great name for a pub. As in, a man tells his wife he’s going to “have a nap,” only to climb out of his bedroom window and stroll down the street to the pub to have a pint with the lads. That sounds a bit "cheeky" indeed. The possibilities are endless. But, enough about cheeky naps for one day ... LW

State of the union ...

All the last-minute deals have been hashed out. The dust has settled. And, as a result, the English Premier League looks drastically different. In what may go down as the most frantic deadline day of a January (or any) transfer window, deals worth tens of millions of pounds were finalised with minutes to spare on January 31, star players were bought and sold, and, even more shocking, club “legends” finally walked away. Club record transfer fees were broken, and rebroken. An exciting day to end what has been a January transfer window on steroids. Here’s the view from the Kop:

Liverpool's first signing of the day was somewhat of a given, having agreed a fee a few days prior, that of Luis Suarez, a prolific Uruguayan striker and back-up goalkeeper. Suarez is a tricky, devious forward, with pace, skill and a cunning eye to finish. The perfect complement for almost any striker, Suarez’s exploits have been most widely viewed in his fruitful partnership with fellow countryman Diego Forlan in this summer’s World Cup, scoring three goals and almost single-handedly guiding Uruguay to the semi-finals. Furthermore, Suarez’s track record for his former club Ajax in the Dutch League is equally impressive. Over the past two-and-a-half seasons at Ajax, Suarez has viciously bit into Dutch defences scoring an astounding 49 goals in last season alone. Suarez looked fit to establish a devastating duo with Liverpool’s Fernando Torres; but, shortly after his transfer fee was agreed, other news came about ...

Chelsea had put in a bid for Fernando Torres. “Pssh! Rubbish!” was my initial reaction; but, within hours, Torres had made his wishes clear and handed in a transfer request. At first it was denial, fear, bargaining then acceptance, and when serious negotiations began this morning, it was all but inevitable, Torres was leaving. But, all was not lost. In fact, far from it. Liverpool had no wishes to dispose of Torres, so, if they were going to do so, it would not come cheaply. £50 million was the price agreed for Torres, and now he belongs to Chelsea.

It is hard for me to know exactly how to feel about this situation; for, though I hate to see a player of his quality leave the club, I can understand why. Torres has played through three and a half years of trophy-less football, and now he has been stripped of his beloved Champions League competition, the reason that he left Atletico for Liverpool in the first place. This time last year, Torres called on then-owners Hicks and Gillett to fund the transfer of either David Silva or David Villa. Neither of which happened; and, as a result, Torres is left to scrap for service off of the bones of through balls left by players like Lucas ... I mean really, I might be better than him. Torres may have both endeared himself to and then betrayed the Kop; but, to remove all emotions from this move, I look at it like this: We have a quality player who is not playing his best and wants to leave. Ok, how much can we get for him? £50 million. Agreed. After all, football is still a business.

And speaking of business, this brings me to the massive story of the day: Andy Carroll signs for Liverpool. Carroll, a 6’5” strong athletic forward, similar to former-Red Peter Crouch, only better in every department. This season, with Newcastle’s promotion to the Premier League, Carroll has shown his quality, got rowdy and slapped in 11 goals thus far (2 more than Torres in 5 fewer starts ... just saying). Carroll can utilize his height to lethal ability or use his feet (as shown against Liverpool earlier in the season). Entering Anfield with a hefty £35 million pricetag, the 22 year-old Carroll faces enormous expectations and big boots to fill in his time to come, but as he has already adapted to the Premier League and made his England debut, perhaps this is his first step to a gilded career.

And here’s my verdict:

Suarez was an intelligent signing. At £22.7 million, he was not cheap, but Suarez has dominated the Dutch League and proven he can score at the highest level of football during the World Cup. His style suits himself for a fortuitous partnership with any forward in the game, but he can put the ball in the back of the net as well. Doubters of whether Suarez’s Ajax prowess can translate to the Premier League, I guarantee you this: by the end of the season, Luis Suarez will have scored more Premier League goals than the likes of Manchester City’s prized £27 million January signing, Edin Dzeko. You heard it here first.

Second: It was the right thing to do to sell Torres. Torres was unhappy, wanted to leave, and, to be brutally honest, had not nearly played his best for Liverpool this season. Torres’ current slump in form, as well as during the World Cup, was due to injury. Torres’ was rushed back far too early this summer to play for Spain in the World Cup, struggled for form and got injured again in the final. Though the striker has started to take significant steps back toward his highest ability (braces against Chelsea, Wolves), a constant flow of goals nor his fitness is guaranteed to be available for the season’s remainder, and I just have this awful feeling that one more serious injury will severely dampen his overall long term quality. Lastly, I have long ago accepted that Torres would not be ending his career at Anfield; therefore, with all the aforementioned factors in mind, £50 million would most likely not come by again.

Third: Andy Carroll can be, and I sincerely believe will be, a revelation for Liverpool. Yes, £35 million is clearly overpriced for a player that has only played half a season in the Premier League, and yes he is unlikely to be sold for that amount again. But the crucial element to the signing is that Liverpool do not hope to resell him. Kenny Dalglish’s plans for Carroll do not include making him into a name like Torres, but rather one like Rush, Keegan, or, dare I say it, Dalglish. Andy Carroll’s future at Liverpool is long term and, though I hate to draw parallels with this club, seems to mirror Manchester United’s signing of Wayne Rooney for £30 million when he was young and unproven. Doubters of Andy Carroll, here’s call number two: by the end of the season, Andy Carroll will have scored more Premier League goals than Fernando Torres.

Fourth: The deadline day signings demonstrate good vision for the club. Since the takeover and arrival of NESV, it was largely unknown as to how Liverpool’s new owners would do their business. In the day of bargaining that went down on January 31, I felt that John W. Henry and Tom Werner showed ambition and a ‘big-club’ mentality, both characteristics that were invariably absent from the Hicks & Gillett regime. NESV put the investment in the squad that has been direly needed and duly called for by the likes of Pepe Reina, Roy Hodgson and (you guessed it) Fernando Torres through the signing of Luis Suarez. A good, quality signing. Then, when it was clear Torres was gone, and that there was £50 million to spend, I felt that Liverpool acted like a big club again, and greatly admired the approach of “pick your player, not your price” that Henry greenlit to Dalglish. Carroll may be overpriced, but Liverpool showed its weight as a club by not budging from its first choice player. I felt it odd to watch Tottenham constantly bidding outrageous sums for numerous players all day (Aguero, Llorente, Rossi, Forlan, Carroll, Adam) and constantly getting turned down. I think a big club makes a decision and stays with it, otherwise, top players and their clubs will not take you seriously. I find little integrity in the wayward bidding of outlandish sums, and here’s my call number 3: Liverpool, currently sitting in 7^th will finish ahead of Tottenham. There may be a six point gap at the moment, but don’t say I didn’t tell you so when it happens in May ... LW