ALL right, everyone.

Here are five thoughts on the match between Liverpool and Watford:

1) Momentum

I’m walking up to Anfield and obviously there’s only one thing on my mind — the lovely Helen.

All week I’ve been inundated with well wishes from people on Twitter who, like me, have nothing better to do.

“I hope you see her again m8,” said someone with a picture of Titi Camara as an avatar.

“Praying for a happy ending 🙏,” said someone who had a picture of a Toad in the Hole as an avatar.

As I make my way down Anfield Road, a sort of guard honour forms and people start to sing. A flare goes off, a steward says it’s like Dortmund and Villarreal all ever again — but more romantic. People are patting me on the back and sharing their hopes and dreams with me. For the first time it feels like we have momentum, like we’re all building up to something together.

Then I get a tweet from an egg with 17 followers that says:

“Any chance you can talk about the football this week you cunt?”

2) Helens

I think I see her.

In the distance, through the smoke generated by all the flares, I see a diminutive figure in sensible shoes and an orderly bob. I can’t see her face as she’s walking away from me, but the clue’s in the shirt.

I can just make it out:

Helen – 7

My heart races and my steps quicken. I must catch up with her, this could be my only chance. I swerve the well wishers on Anfield Road, making my excuses, and edge nearer towards her.

Helen – 7  getting bigger all the time.

She turns a corner, into the car park at the Centenary Stand, and I’m right behind her. I take the corner, lengthening my stride, and then I see it before me – in all its horror.

There’s 10 of them!

10 Helens, 10 orderly bobs, and 20 sensible shoes.

And they’re laughing their heads off and pointing at me.

I realise what’s happened. It’s my worst nightmare —a stag do at my expense.

I feel humiliated, my bottom lip starts to quiver. For the first time, I wish I’d never set eyes on Helen.

3) Tuna

In the ground, there’s a fella sitting in front of me with “Tuna 68” on his back.

Here’s a picture of him for the people out there that think I make all this stuff up.

I spend the whole 45 minutes trying to work out why someone would come to the match with Tuna on their shirt and decide that I must approach him at half time to find out.

“Excuse me mate, can I ask you a question?” I said

“Sure”, he said, with the pleasant demeanour of a man who likes to be asked questions.

“Why does it say Tuna on the back of your shirt?”

“My name’s John West,” he said.

We both laughed.

“Imagine being called John West,” I thought. He must have had a lifetime of tuna-based puns thrown at him and here I am, intersecting his life for one minute, and it’s coming up again. It’s his own fault of course, he didn’t have to put Tuna on his shirt, but ultimately I respect him for going all in with the pun.

“Nice to meet you John West,” I said and held out my hand.

“Great to meet you, too,” he said. “Sorry what’s your name?”

“Bernard Matthews,” I said.

4) Half and Half insect

It was almost tropical weather today and in the second half a bee came along, without a ticket, and just stood in front of my mate’s head.

He tried to move his head to get a better view of the match and, everytime he did, the bee tracked him and blocked his vision.

It was brilliant, he was being man marked by a bee, and I found it about 10 times more interesting than the football match.

Then it stung him in the face on the 83rd minute and my mate told me I had take him to hospital because he’s allergic to their sting.

“That’s ironic,” I said, “Getting stung by a bee during a Watford match.”

“Watford are The Hornets, you prick. Brentford are The Bees.”

He may have been in loads of agony but there was no way he was going to let my error slip.

Fair play to him.

5) A sting in the tail

I’m sitting in A & E and, while my mate’s face is getting treated, I start to reflect on the day.

On the plus side, the Reds have won, but on the absolutely shit side it would appear that Helen and I are over. I’ve been embarrassed — a terrible plight for a man of my age.

Then all of a sudden, there’s lights, sirens, and a huge commotion in the hospital. An ambulance pulls up outside and opens its doors.

One by one they emerge on stretchers — the 10 Helens. Their faces have been rearranged and their cheap wigs are matted in blood.

I can’t believe what I’m seeing.

The 10 get wheeled past me and I can just about overhear a conversation between a policeman and one of the wounded.

“So what happened again?” the policeman asks.

“Not again,” the wounded man pleads.

“Just one more time, it’s important I know all the details.”

“Okay, for the last time. We all came out of the match, took a shortcut down a deserted alley, and there she was.”

“Who?”

“The woman!”

“What did she look like?”

“Like a suburban vicar’s wife. Very unassuming and demure. She was holding a book about allotments and a packet of mint humbugs.”

“What happened next?”

“She offered us all a mint humbug and asked us if we enjoyed the game. She seemed ever so nice and sweet really.”

“Then what?”

“Then she kicked me in the bollocks and called me a fucking fraud.”

“Helen!” I thought.

“She beat us all up. Absolutely knocked the fuck out of us,” he continued.

I sat in my chair, simultaneously delighted with the turn of events and chastising myself for ever doubting her.

What a woman she is. She’d sent me a message and I was back in, counting down the fixtures and hoping to see her again.

I then became aware of a new outpatient that was sitting next to me — a tawdry gentleman with eggs smashed all over his head.

“Bloody hell mate, what’s happened to you?”

“I was coming out of the match and looking forward to catching up with some serious football analysis with my 17 followers on Twitter.”

“Oh aye?”

“Yeah, and then I saw this woman walking toward me with six boxes of eggs. Very nice she seemed too, pretty if you like that sort of thing.”

“Oh aye?”

“But then she smashed every single egg she had over my head, all 36 of them. One by one, she just stood there and calmly smashed egg after egg over my head.”

“Did she say anything?” I asked

“Well funny you should say that, but she did. She had this little chant whilst she was smashing the eggs over my head.”

“How did it go?”

“Tell me all about the football, you little egg cunt.”
“Tell me all about the football, you little egg cunt.”
“Tell me all about the football, you little egg cunt.”
“Tell me all about the football, you little egg cunt.”

Be still my beating heart.

Up the romantic Reds.