It Was mid-October 2015. My better half, the oft-mentioned El Froggo Tremendo, myself and our faithful canine chum Jazz, were strolling through Liverpool city centre. It was Saturday afternoon. It felt like an Indian Summer. It was lovely. God, I miss days like those.
A group of people were walking towards us. They filled the street. A couple of them were holding cameras. I recognised one of them. I nudged the future Mrs. Allen. “I think that’s Jurgen Klopp”, I said.
It was. A few days earlier, Klopp who had recently managed Borussia Dortmund, had been announced as Liverpool’s new manager. He was replacing Brendan Rodgers, who had done well and nearly won the premier league. Nearly is never in soccer.
Anyway, the entourage was suddenly upon us. Everyone was speaking German. It looked like a German television station was doing a feature on Klopp. There were a few fans butting in, eager to shake the hand of the new manager, which was exactly what the film crew wanted.
Next thing I know, the bearded and bespectacled German coach is standing right in front of me, arm outstretched. I looked at El Froggo. I looked at Klopp and said, and I swear it’s true, “If you had a bit more patience Jurgen, you’d have gotten a real job 30 miles down the M62.”
Klopp didn’t laugh. Maybe it’s true I thought, maybe Germans really don’t have a sense of humour.
I mean, he could have laughed and said “ah you’re a United fan yes? I look forward to how you say, knocking you off your perch?” That would have been funny for two reasons.
Firstly, back in 1986, a young (ish) Alex Ferguson, after taking control of United, said that his ambition was to knock Liverpool off their perch. He put it more colourfully. Secondly, Man City had beaten Klopp to it.
Klopp pulled his hand back, swore at me in German and moved on. A scouser asked me what had I said to annoy him. I said that I told him I was shagging his baby sister.
An hour later, Caroline and I were eating frogs legs in a French bistro. Our waitress was lovely. We told her we had met Klopp. She said he had gone on a one-man pub crawl the previous night and was buying drinks for Liverpool AND Everton fans in the city’s sports bars.
I said to the missus, “This guy’s a feckin eejit and obviously a megalomaniac. He won’t last pissing time.”
As usual, I was wrong.
I was wrong when I said that he wouldn’t last pissing time. Klopp transformed our great rivals into a brilliant football team and led them to their first league title in 30 years.
But he is a feckin eejit. In fact, he’s a feckin Nazi.
Klopp has morphed into a one-man crusader for mandatory vaccination. This week, he’s written in Liverpool’s programme notes to warn fans of the dangers of antivaxxers and misinformation. He has called for Manchester United and other clubs where there have been recent covid outbreaks, to name and shame the players who have turned down the offer of a jab.
He declared that he will not sign unvaccinated players in the future, saying that players who have not been jabbed are “a constant threat for all of us.” He said the vaccine is “influential” whatever that means.
Fuck off Jurgen, preferably back to the motherland. Your compatriots can’t get enough of lockdown and mandatory jabs. You’ll be better off there.
Liverpool fans might say, “Well of course you want to see the back of him Richie. It’ll suit your team!”
In better times, they’d have been right. It has nothing to do with that.
Klopp must have something about him. He must have a spine. An average player, he has risen to the very top of the coaching game, taking on and beating Bayern in Germany and going on to win the Champions League and Premier League with Liverpool, taking on and beating Mourinho and Guardiola.
Average men don’t breathe in such rarefied air, nor do idiots. Klopp must be aware that athletes are dropping like flies all over the world. He must know, or suspect, that the collapses are linked to the jabs.
What manner of man is he then, to call for the mandating of dangerous and unnecessary medicines?
He’s a Nazi. That’s the manner of man he is.