By Harry Wicks (TTT Subscriber divilmint).
I couldn’t sleep last night. Five nights to go and already I can’t sleep with the excitement. Thoughts buzzing round my mind too quick for me to catch them, neurons popping in the wee small hours that would otherwise be numb with slumber. Moving to the spare room and telling the wife it’s because I’m too hot rather than admit that as a grown man I’m far too agitated abut a football match that isn’t happening for another five days to worry about sleep. I feel I have to get it all out now. If I don’t I worry I may not sleep again. I’ll be too high on adrenalin and endorphins to sleep much on Saturday night so I need to get my zzzz’s beforehand and unless I marshal my thoughts and emotions before then it’s going to be an uphill struggle.
As I get ready to enjoy my third Champions League final in 13 years with the club I adore it has prompted me to give thanks to the footballing gods that Liverpool is my club. I really wouldn’t want it any other way. Had I been born into the house next door, parental pressure would have seen me grow up a Man Utd fan. Had I been born my brother I would have been an Everton fan. Two damned near misses then, but thankfully when I watched the 1986 FA cup final I won one of life’s lotteries and the prize was that LFC and I were fused at the soul for life.
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