I'm Thoroughly Ashamed Of Myself

As a life-long Evertonian is is my duty to hate Liverpool Football Club, all of it's ladyboy players and it's entire rats nest of faux-Scouse Devon-living supporters. And so far I've done a pretty good job of it, even if I do say so myself. Ever since I had an "I hate Kevin Keegan" badge made specially for me at the tender age of twelve.

Forget this "you come from the same city so you should be pleased when they do well" nonsense. I want Liverpool to get beat every game they play, no matter who they play. French, Argentine, Germans, bring them all on, I'll cheer the lot on.

So why then did I get a warm rosy glow inside upon hearing that they'd put four past Man Utd on Saturday?

Why did I feel an inner sense of glee every time that "once a blue, always a blue" Wayne Rooney threw his petulant arms in the air in despair when yet another team-mates pass went astray?

Why was I so delighted at the final whistle when the camera zoomed in on his fat litle face that he looked like he was crying?

And why was I so delighted to see Edwin "I haven't let a goal in for a million years" Van der Saar getting some much-needed practice in bending down to pick the ball out of the back of the net?