Because 'our' team played the better class of footie. From the age of seven to twenty-three we were on top. Not only in England but in Europe.
There was something very special about big European nights in Liverpool, and I can remember forty-one years ago and our first mass exodus to a European cup final and victory over Borussia Mönchengladbach - a three one thriller in Rome - more clearly than most of the nineties.
Then retaining it the next year, in a boring one nil win over Belgian club Brugge at Wembley in 1978. And the heartbreak of being knocked out in the first round the following season by our main domestic rival of those years, Nottingham Forest, who went on to win their first European Cup that year, 1979. And us regaining it two years later, in '81, with left back Alan Kennedy's eighty-second minute goal, beating Real Madrid one nil in Paris.
Tempered by sorrowful scenes of soccer hooliganism by Liverpool fans abroad. As ITN reporter Tony Francis told us watching on telly at home:
'Once again British soccer fans have disgraced themselves abroad. But there was somehow a grim predictability about it all. And yet the French soccer authorities aren't entirely blameless. By allocating only 12,000 tickets, when at least three times as many people have arrived, was only asking for trouble.'And then a penultimate, fourth final beating and breaking the hearts of every Roma fan in their home park, with another Kennedy winner, in a penalty shoot out two years later at Stadio Olimpico, 1983. Only to lose it again the following year against the Italian team Juventus in the original sin, stain and tragedy of the Heysel Stadium disaster.
Where Liverpool supporters, after an initial outbreak of flare throwing between them, thuggishly charged at Juventus fans, breaching a fence separating them from a "neutral area"; and the fleeing Italian supporters were crushed against a concrete wall that fell down on them, killing 39 Juventus fans and injuring six hundred others.
As a result English clubs received a five-year ban from entering any European competition, thus ending a period of great success for English clubs in the European Cup.
Tragedy again struck in 1989 with the Hillsborough disaster, at that year's semi-final of the FA cup in Sheffield with Nottingham Forest; after police refused to open a gate to relive crowd pressure, and 96 LFC fans were crushed to death, and 766 were injured.
In the immediate aftermath a panicked police began a huge coverup operation, feeding the national press lies about the LFC fans' behaviour, that were repeated and published, by the Murdoch press especially, as they routinely do up to this day with immigrants and refugees; vilifying LFC fans with vile lies and painting them as out of control drunken animals. This resulted in the twenty-seven year campaign that eventually led to this year's Justice for the 96, and vindication by jury at the Hillsborough Inquest, which delivered its verdict of unlawful killing two months ago.
And though the fans have a chequered history, the LFC football philosophy that brought two decades of success on the pitch was very simple. Start in defence and work your way out from there. You do not go out to win, but not lose. A very subtle and challenging mentality to get right.
Liverpool were known for having an impenetrable defence, Fortress Anfield, with the defenders just as feted as forwards and strikers.
Seventies home town captain, Liverpool hardman, Tommy 'Chopper' Smith, the Anfield Iron, who 'wasn't born, he was quarried', Shankely said of him.
Midfield scouser Jimmy Case, with one of the most powerful kicks in football, whose size and tackling strength terrorised opposition players into submission. The slick Scottish twin-engine of midfield, Terry McDermot and Ian Callaghan, who rarely lost the ball, and were as equally at home going forward and scoring, as defending and taking the ball back, playing a game of pass, move, and constant possession.
And then the forwards and goal-scoring legends. Kevin Keegan, who banged home twenty-two goals in his second season, two of which won us our first (of three) UEFA Cup, in 1973.
When we first set on the road to being crowned Kings of Europe, beating for the first time in a two leg home and away final, our earliest arch rival German team, Borussia Mönchengladbach; who we beat again four years later to win the first European Cup final against them in Rome '77.
Supersub Scouser, David Fairclough, a ginger haired pocket rocket talisman who came on at crucial points when we needed goals in the final third to win important matches. And King Kenny Dalglish, the laconic Glaswegian striker and top goal scorer in the sacred number seven shirt he wore when the original English European export Keegan left to play for Hamburg.
England captain, Emlyn Hughes, Welsh wizard Ian Rush, and the England goalkeeper Ray Clemence - replaced by Bruce Grobbelaar. Whose bendy-kneed antics in Rome '83 put off two of the four penalty takers it took to miss before Alan Kennedy banged it home again and won us our fourth European cup final.
A successful technique mimicked to winning effect by Poland goalkeeper, Jerzy Dudek, in Istanbul 2005. What many fans and neutrals claim is the best complete, exciting game of club football ever played in the Northern hemisphere. Twenty-one years later.
The time we waited for a fifth victory in the European cup. A night fans had dreamed of since a dark and curly headed captain Souness last held old big ears aloft in Rome when the price of a pint of mild in the Buck Ith Vine in Ormskirk bygone times was 40p.
A night eleven years ago when Scouse football saint and England captain, Steven Gerrard, was rewarded by the gods for his determination, grit and loyalty to a team with one of the top three most culturally cohesive, potent, and historically significant soccer records in the UK, Britain, Ireland, and Europe.
One of the world's most loved and romantic teams, with incredible highs, and terrible devastating lows, reflecting and representing the people of Liverpool, and that south-west region of Lancashire, half of the NW region of England where seven million of us North West working-class English folk live, love, dream, and believe, with all our flaws, guts and glory, in something that we all share. Humanity.
And so, England did not deserve to win, because 'we' had no belief and played like a bunch of clueless overpaid show ponies. Whose ignominious night these multi-millionaires representing the soccer hopes and dreams of fifty-three million people, that were spectacularly frozen out of Euro 2016 after being beaten by the feet and heart of the tournament's smallest team, made up of part-time players representing the 300,000 people of Iceland, doing it for love alone; was brought about, in part, I suspect, by a collective emotional team state of being totally gutted and divided in the immediate aftermath of learning the Leave result.
The LFC ethos of belief that also appeared, in what until last Wednesday had also been a team of overpaid show ponies, in all its glorious magical display from the time 'we' came out looking like winners.
With a stark belief that the Republic either went out as damp squibs, surrendering all our faith and ability that froze in the face of a team that statistically were odds on favourites to dump us out of the tournament, in another embarrassing car crash of inglorious fearful capitulation, caused by nought but the phantasmagorical paranoia of our own collective mind; or we beat Italy in a blaze of sporting glory. That, pulled off, is now up there as a two decade high. To do what we achieved.
And it was something powerful alright, because up til l that point I'd been reading of how great the Irish fans were abroad, without sharing in any of the collective buzz, because half of me was sickened and poisoned by the behaviour of English, French, and Russian thugs at the very start of the tournament in France.
But on Wednesday, with just one performance of LFC style belief by a team that until then looked devoid of it; I once more fell in love fully with Ireland, again. Because it was the LFC ethos 'we' displayed. My earliest positive and most powerful cultural influence that transcends race, is more important than religion, nothing to do with politics, and everything to do with a republic of poetry and prayer.
Humanity and love.
Grá agus siíocháin.
PS, Pauline Swords, oh mother oh Muse bless us oh faery woman of Ireland, at home in heaven, give us this day a hopeful prayer, show through your earthly servant this world and earth all share, within and without, from beginning to end, as our maker and parent, through thee come chords, conduits, and the channels of song for silly voices we lay bare before you here as Her that guides our hand to write, our ears to listen, and from your mouth speak in praise and prayer, of you who loves us all.
Oh Mother of every living breath, of each and every prayer, create in this tiny moment of a pointless silly game, the spontaneous cultural gold mimicked and won this and every other day until the twelve of never, by your ever loving son, who airs our songs of freedom, joy, and sorrow.
Kevin Desmond Swords.