My Day at Jürgen Klopp's Final Match

I assume an Evertonian installed the security camera

Comedy might be about timing, but deep, deep irritation can be about that too.

My dog sleeps in my bedroom and isn’t usually too much bother. On Sunday morning, he had what I can only assume was a night terror at approximately 5:45am, jolting me wide awake.

I was hoping to sleep until my 7:30 alarm, ahead of what was sure to be a draining and emotional day. Couldn’t be helped.

It gave me a chance to watch the end of the baseball game from the previous night. My team, the New York Mets, were 7-2 up when I went to sleep.

Their closer blew a four-run lead in the ninth inning and they lost 10-9. If this means nothing to you, ask Jeff in the comments below.

As ever when I travel to Anfield, it was to be something of a convoluted journey. This was taken to new levels on Sunday.

I left at 8:00am. T-minus 480 minutes until kick-off, 600 or so until I’m a blubbering wreck. Stage one was a short walk to a bus stop. Textbook. When I got there, the next bus was six minutes away. Six minutes later, it was still six minutes away, presumably trapped in a vortex just south of Leyton station.

I had given myself an hour to make what should be a 30-minute journey, and the clock was already ticking. I set off on foot for Walthamstow station.

Sweating profusely before I’d really got anywhere, I eventually got a different bus for the final part of the journey. A relief, but naturally I then just missed a tube train and that cost me a few more minutes, because such is life.

Once on the tube, I should’ve been okay. My mood was not lightened by hearing the words every underground traveller dreads though:

THIS TRAIN IS BEING HELD HERE TO REGULATE THE SERVICE

Balls to that, automated-voice mate, I’ve got a train to catch. And catch it I did, after a run up escalators and through St. Pancras station.

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