mr sg was talking about us drowning in unintentional satire and certainly the weeping wailers of the Pier Head triumphantly announce their self-loathing, their quarter-century of death cultism, their daily mortification of the soul, as though it were a blessing.
The satire oozes from Liverpool, as though they and they alone, are the keepers of the All Coppers Are Bastards flame, as though H'bro is somehow unique, as though every single copper in the land didn't do this shit every single moment of his working life; as though every single health trust in the land did not close ranks and conspire against wronged patients; as though every single religious diocese in the land did not collude in child sexual abuse; as though every single mainstream journalist was not a plague rat, scuttling, in dark places, from one sewer to another. What on Earth is it, with Scousers, that they do not know that bureaucracies exist only to protect and further themselves and for absolutely no other reason? Do they think that ambulance drivers - much less their managers - actually give a fuck about anything but themselves?
If this mawkish momentum should falter, in Liverpool, if, as they should be, senior police officers are jailed - not just for H'bro but for all their crimes - if, as he should be, the degenerate loudmouth Kelvin McFilth is flogged through the streets - not just for H'bro but for his nation-corroding career vileness and if, as they should be, the ninety-six families were compensated with millions per head; if the whole nation linked arms every Saturday afternoon, singing-along with Gerry and the Pacemakers, from now until Judgement Day and if every city in the world twinned itself with Liverpool, proclaiming Je Suis Scally; if, in short, all that could be made good was made good, the guilty punished, the victims recompensed and their reputations restored, if all these things happened and the great ship of Grief lost even steerage way then the flashmourning mob would have lost a limb or two, would be crippled, no more vigils, no more demands, no more outrage.
They have added to whatever was the original offence at H'bro - what was it, anyway, I went to a Brimingham city match in the early eighties, with my old friend, and was horrified by tens of thousands of drunken men, perched on terraces, baying and screaming like banshees; what do people think is going to happen, in an inebriate crowd which has suspended its reason? I never went again. But whatever it was, the Big Bad, these things remain more likely to happen than not, when you compress large numbers of drunken testosterone-fuelled men in tight spaces, a football match crowd and the opportunity for individual self-protection and preservation are mutually exclusive, abandon all hope, ye who enter here, that should be over the blessed turnstiles, shouldn't it, for here be inferno and riot? That the cops will behave badly in the event of mishap is axiomatic, that they will then cover their arses is axiomatic, too, everybody knows that, and if they don't they shouldn't be allowed out on their own.
It was not the cops but the going to the match which killed these blessed martyrs, if they'd stayed at home and watched it on the telly with that nice Mr Des Lynham, they'd all have lived. But then, whither this glorious crusade; how, without tragedy, would so many define themselves, punctuate and underline their lives.
Can they, now, lay down their weary tune, these people, or will they seek, like Gerry and Cilla McCann, like the Dowlers and so many others, to impale the rest of us on a grief so easily avoided?