It’s been a stressful week. Frankly, I don’t know how I’ve coped.
I’ve had to endure various humiliating insults, which I thought I’d got used to after years of exposing my opinions to world at large.
The internet is the insulter’s dream medium, with its faceless warriors, but now it’s spreading into my personal life. It’s a cruel, cruel world.
It all started at some traffic lights, near to my house, that were out of action. A policeman stood in the road, and unprovoked, he began making hand gestures in my direction. He seemed to be telling me to go and do something with myself, further up the road; shocked, I remained stationary in my car, a quivering mess.
Then the driver of the vehicle directly behind mine started aggressively honking his horn. What had I done to upset him so much? Was he the child whom I’d called names at primary school 30 years ago? I’d obviously done something very personal to upset him. Wracked with guilt, I got out of my car and, my knees digging into the tarmac, begged his forgiveness.
He shook his head, and rolled his eyes to the heavens. Is that where he suggests I’m heading. He then started pointing at the road ahead – maybe he meant I’m destined for hell?
Then there was the angry email from a woman psychologically scarred because I was sneering at her in my profile picture. Wherever she moved in front of her computer, I was giving her a contemptuous look. She admitted to serious self-esteem issues, and didn’t need me belittling her with my smug ugly mug.
My day got worse. I stopped off for a coffee at a famous café chain, on a very busy lunchtime. I pointed at the mini croissants and, above the din, shouted ‘two’.
To my horror, the shop assistant stuck two fingers up in my direction. Admittedly they were shown in the manner of the inoffensive Churchillian victory salute, with the word ‘two?’ mouthed back at me, but they could just have easily have been the other way round, and we all know what that means.
Appalled, I collapsed into a heap by the chocolate shaker.
On advice, my solicitor has started proceedings against the chain, and my therapist reckons it could take years for me to overcome the slight. At the doctors the words ‘post traumatic stress disorder’ were mentioned, but admittedly only by me.
Such cruelty is unforgivable. I didn’t bother to ask what any of the people meant by their gestures. I went to where I knew they wouldn’t be, but they weren’t there. That just shows the type of people they are.
Despite not bothering to discover if I’d got the wrong end of the stick, I’ve gone to the world at large with my gripes. You would too, if such unspeakable things happened to you.
“Tomkins not only shows why he is a prolific, talented writer but also cements his status as very knowledgeable and passionate Red. In my opinion this is Tomkins’ best work to date; a thoroughly excellent read.”
Vic Gill, Shanks’ son-in-law and former LFC trainee
“The project that Tomkins has taken on here is highly ambitious: assessing each of Liverpool’s managers since Bill Shankly. He does this in his own irrepressible style of analyzing in detail every area that falls within a manager’s remit. And whilst Tomkins has a talent for such a task, where he excels here is in approaching each manager without any apparent pre-conceived ideas.”
Paul Grech, Squarefootball.net
“A unique analysis of the club’s managers, which is no mean feat given the extensive bibliography of the club… informative … another perspective on the last 50 years at Liverpool.”
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